Rise of the Phoenix
by GillianDrake
Summary: Post-TRF: Sherlock returns to London with his niece, Violet, a Hacker who has been arranging his homecoming & whose efforts are being thwarted by an unknown enemy. But John thinks that Sherlock's dead and Mycroft has no idea he has a daughter...oh dear
1. After the End

**Chapter 1: After the End.**

The sky was dark. Considering it was the middle of January, and it was eleven o'clock at night, that was hardly surprising. Still, the streets were teeming with drunken students in tiny skirts and designer jeans; there was no way that the January weather in Manchester was going to get in the way of everyone having good time.

But whilst everyone else was going out and having fun in the typical, inane, _normal_ way, one student in particular was on her way home. The clubs weren't exactly Violet Sherringford's scene, though this evening she'd happily accepted an invitation to the Student Union for the weekly Pub Quiz. Her team, the randomly named: 'Rhubarb and Cucumber Sandwiches on Helium with a hint of Mint' hadn't won. They weren't too cut-up about it; they were just glad not to have come last. That would have been pathetic.

So, after a night filled with two Shandies, a circle of raucous mates and a cocky quizmaster, without having to deal with loud gunshots, gruesome experiments and childish exclamations of "I'm bored", Violet was ready to go home and get some work done. The only thing about being a world-class Hacker was the fact that it was like bringing up children: it was a full time occupation, and just when you thought you'd cleaned up one mess, another one had already been made.

Such was the turn of Violet's thoughts as she came to a quiet, little house in a quiet, little street a few miles from the City Centre. Pulling out her keys, she decided that, much as she loathed to admit it, she wished her shared flat was big enough to house all the craziness of shootings, deductions and feet in the washing machine; the house was simply too quiet and suburban. But she kept her thoughts to herself as she shoved her way through the front door and switched the light on. Her housemates had hated him and had insisted that she get rid of him as soon as possible.

She'd had no real choice but to oblige.

She made her way up the stairs to her room and unlocked the door. She flicked on the light switch, kicked her shoes of and sat down at her desk. Addressing the mess of coursework, microphones, scanners, cables and computers, Moira asked: "Have you been good while I was out?" She pretended that they replied and crooned softly: "You are good to me," before putting on her headset and logging on.

She had to admit, she wasn't entirely surprised when she received a panicked message reading:

_Dracula_ _Medusa:_ I need you over here, now. The Doctor's getting impatient, and you know what he's like when he gets like that. He refuses to listen to me-I had to walk out before he could deduce my questionable daily activities in front of Jervis, again.

"Sherlock, you really are a pain in the arse." Violet sighed before replying to the message:

_Medusa Dracula: _I'll be there in twenty minutes. I'm very sorry, I did tell him that telling your butler which porn movies you preferred was not…comme-il-faut.

Alright, so that particular episode _had_ been incredibly amusing, but Count Frederick Oliver Pearce, Earl of Stockport and Hacker extraordinaire, never mind one of Violet's closest friends, hadn't seen the funny side so much as threatened to hand Sherlock into the authorities.

After that debacle in the first week of Sherlock and 'Dracula' living together in the latter's luxury pad, things had gotten better, though only because they'd taken charge of opposite wings of the mansion. Violet still couldn't believe how lucky she was to have met the aristocratic Hacker and fellow Sherlock-sympathiser.

As Violet left the house and made her way to the bus stop, she couldn't help but think about the last two years: two years ago, Sherlock Holmes, the disgraced 'Consulting Detective' had plunged from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital in London after his name was smeared in the press by Richard Brooks, an actor who was supposedly paid by Sherlock Holmes to play the villainous James Moriarty.

The night bus arrived, all lit up and almost empty but for a middle aged hippy with greying dreadlocks held back by a fraying, green bandana. Violet flashed her bus pass at the driver before claiming a seat and taking up a tattered copy of today's newspaper.

She'd done a similar thing two years ago; picked up a paper on the bus and read the public's scorn and condemnation for Sherlock Holmes: Show-Off Holmes Kidnaps Children and Kills Old Ladies.

She'd never met the man, but she was furious on his behalf. She knew that he and Moriarty were real; she'd been hiding out in the dark alleys and sewers of the internet enough to know.

She and her Hacking associates had been watching Moriarty and the British Government doing the tango for a long, long time. The only thing was that Hackers didn't usually want to do anything about it. They were Hackers. What they did was illegal. As far as world leaders were concerned, they were worse than bombers. Bombers simply killed and spread terror. Hackers spread information and had the means to bring the world to its knees. Hacking was a dangerous occupation.

Only, this time, Violet had resolved that enough was enough. When Sherlock Holmes leapt from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, she spread the word: #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes and charged others to do the same. Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr had never seen the like. Of course, this wasn't reflective of public opinion; being able to manufacture trends and digital viruses was child's play to the seasoned Violet Sherringford.

Gradually, others had taken up the challenge of dragging the name of Sherlock Holmes out of the dirt; there was now a fully functioning underground movement of 'Sherlockians' (which, admittedly _was_ made up mostly of conspiracy theorists who thought that Elvis was still alive and the Moon Landing was faked). 'Dracula', 'Serenity269', 'Dumbledore', 'Starbuck' and 'Medusa' were but a few of the names actively playing the great game, quietly and anonymously blackmailing members of government, newspaper editors and certain members of Scotland Yard into allowing the 'Holmesgate Scandal'-as it was now being called-to die down.

In the meantime, Sherlock had been out of the country, hunting down what was left of Moriarty's Criminal Network. Two months ago, he'd arrived back at Heathrow Airport, looking bruised and tanned and had informed Violet that the last of it had gone to ground and probably wouldn't be found.

So, all that was left to do was to reinsert Sherlock Holmes back into society. It was by no means an impossible task-oh no-simply rather complicated and extremely difficult. The plan included:

Having Kitty Riley dropped from her newspaper for her use of 'questionable sources',

Blackmailing Scotland Yard's Superintendent into suspending Sergeants Donovan and Anderson for misconduct (Violet wouldn't call herself 'vindictive' precisely…but that was what she was) and

Hacking into the computer of a certain Mycroft Holmes, which was no mean feat, to write him a word document consisting of the words:

"Dear Mr Holmes,

I know it'll be rather difficult for you, but do try not to screw up, this time. Honestly, who would be stupid enough to give their brother's personal information to a mentally ill criminal mastermind?

Yours,

Medusa"

But the process was achingly slow and Sherlock was beginning to get bored, according to 'Dracula's SOS message and a bored Sherlock was not something to be willingly endured. So, why she was on a bus at about midnight, she had no idea.

**Author's Note: The Soundtrack for this chapter is: 'Dark Horse' by Kidneythieves.**

**I'm going to say, before this goes any further, that I don't know the first thing about hacking, and I'm both sorry and glad that I'll undoubtedly get things wrong with regards to the intricacies and hierarchies of hacking. Sorry, because the subject is cool and it's a shame to misrepresent it. Glad, because if I did represent it properly, then I'd: 1. Be handing out secrets, which would be stupid, and 2. Probably be arrested because they think I'm a Hacker who has defrauded someone at some point…ah well.**

**Also, I think I should point out, just in case there's any confusion, that 'The Doctor' refers to Sherlock. I just felt like being a smartarse; both 'Sherlock' and 'Doctor Who' are linked by the brilliant Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss, who, by the way, own 'Sherlock' and all characters therein-so, no copyright infringement intended. I only own Moira and all the other Hackers. **

**Please Read, Review and Enjoy }-) **


	2. Me Tis

**Chapter 2: Me Tis. **

It was a two minute walk from the bus stop to the Earl of Stockport's mansion-or rather, the gates to the drive of his mansion, but it felt like miles and miles to Violet, who simply wanted to get to bed and _sleep_. Sleep being in short supply since Sherlock had come back from his travels around the world.

She pressed the buzzer at the side of the gate.

"Hello," Jervis' clipped (and harried) tones came through the speaker, "how may I help you?"

"Hi, Jervis," Violet said brightly, knowing that her informality irked the stiff butler.

"Ah. Miss Sherringford." The speaker shouldn't have been able to register the butler's subtle disdain for the young Hacker, but miraculously, it did, and Violet couldn't help but flash a mischievous grin as the gates opened.

The front door (which, incidentally, was about three times the size of any other front door that Violet had ever seen) opened before she even had a chance to knock on it, but instead of the wizened, unsmiling butler whom she'd expected to see on the other side, her eyes met with her friend and fellow Hacker: 'Dracula'. "Quick, quick. Come in." he panted, a gleaming scimitar held limply in his grip. The sight would have been amusing if Violet hadn't known what Sherlock was like. As it was, she could barely suppress a groan.

"What happened?" She asked. The aristocrat raked his pale fingers through his long, dark hair and muttered something almost unintelligible. "What?" she asked, eyeing the hallway for any signs of acid burns, blood spatter, ears (-don't laugh-true story-) nailed to the walls…Her eyes touched everything they could before making their way back to the man in front of her.

The Count was a tall, gangly man with gorgeously long, dark hair, marble skin and glacial eyes. On the street or at one of the charity galas that he couldn't avoid attending, he could be found wearing one of his dozens of black, designer suits and a pair of priceless, Italian leather shoes. But right now, in the _relative_ comfort of his own home, he was garbed in a long-sleeved Black Sabbath t-shirt, a pair of faded, black jeans and a pair of mismatching green and black socks.

"I said: "he got bored…and-I-may-have-challenged-him-to-duel"

"Ollie!" She moaned. She would have called him 'Freddie', but he refused to have any affiliation with an ascot-wearing cartoon character in a TV programme named after a cowardly Great Dane. "How was I supposed to know that he was good with blades?" he demanded incredulously.

Just then, the ominous crashing sound of metal being brought to the floor in a heap had Oliver wincing. The sound came from the library-where all the priceless first-edition books and antique armour were kept.

"Are you going to see what he's gone and destroyed?" Violet enquired with an apologetic grimace. She was well aware that Sherlock was here only because she'd begged Oliver to give him a place to stay for a while, and she knew that there would be no way that she could repay her friend for the favour-what do you give the man who has everything and enjoys very little of it?-She only wished that Sherlock could be a little more appreciative of what they were doing.

Oh, he was appreciative _in his way_. She knew that; he, along with the rest of her father's side of the family (and her mother's, come to that) was not exactly demonstrative in the usual sense.

Violet was hardly surprised, when Oliver led her to the library and opened the door, to see a tall, thin, curly haired man standing over a toppled suit of Tudor armour with one of Oliver's old cos-play throwing knives. She was completely mortified, however, when that throwing knife was expertly launched into a painting hung on the wall. Hearing a muted groan from behind her, she prayed the painting wasn't the one she thought it was.

She stalked into the room and took a look at the mutilated painting. "Really? _Really_?" She demanded of the restless and soon-to-be-if-not-already-dead Consulting Detective. But he didn't answer, far too irked and bored to take note of his niece's reprimand-it reminded him far too much of her father. So she cast her eyes over to his host whose face was a stoic mask.

"I am so sorry," she said feelingly, casting her hands around the mess. It was, indirectly, her fault. She should never have had Sherlock brought here; it was a mistake. "It doesn't matter." Oliver said, his tone deceptively light, "I never liked that picture, anyway."

"It was Vermeer." Sherlock interjected in a monotone.

"Shut up." Violet hissed as Oliver muttered a simple and irate:

"Yep."

"So why all this?" Violet demanded at last, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"All what?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"You _know _what."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific-your father has that trouble too-"

"You can sodding-well leave _him_ out of this." She almost shrieked, "I am nothing like him."

"Well-"

"I wouldn't." Oliver pointed out helpfully, reaching his scimitar into its resting place above the mantle-piece. "You know she hates anything to do with him." Without taking the trouble to whirl around to fix him with a glare, Moira retorted: "Thank you for reiterating the obvious."

"No problem." He said with a malicious brightness.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock decided to stop toying with his brother's brilliant yet equally indignant offspring; "When can I 'come back'?" he asked.

"When can you-" she began with a frown.

"Stop being officially _dead_." He finished impatiently, "I've located and shut down the majority of Moriarty's network; I'm back now and I'm sick of being cooped up, here. In _Manchester_. Nothing interesting happens in Manchester-"

"That's not true." Violet objected,

"Of course it is, else why is there such a concentration of you Hackers in this area? Because it's easy to hide, because nobody comes looking. Manchester has the highest student population in Europe; if any crimes happen, the likelihood of it being committed by a student means that people in power only spare a glance for this part of the country."

"You make it sound like a total backwater." Violet muttered.

"Compared to London…" Sherlock murmured wistfully-or as wistfully as she'd ever heard him. She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. She really wished that she could give him what he wanted immediately, but the truth was that they needed more time.

"I told him he couldn't go back to Baker Street. And this is what happened." Oliver explained, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear before leaving the room to tell Jervis and the other servants that the coast was clear.

"He's right, you know." Violet pointed out softly, as the curly-haired man removed the helmet to the scattered armour from a leather armchair before slumping into it, his lips pinched irritably. "We just need a few more months-six at the most-to properly rebuild your reputation. No matter how many people we blackmail into being supportive of you, they're still going to think that you're a fraud-a fake. I hate to say it, but Moriarty did a pretty good job on completely ruining you.

"The plan wasn't just to keep the nay-sayers quiet; it was to make you respectable again. Oliver's found evidence for Moriarty's existence and general evilness, and for your innocence. Now it's just a case of making sure that the right people find the evidence and can acquit you without interference from people who are more than happy to hate your guts.

"Honestly, it's just a case of time, now, Sherlock." She said that last with a note of pleading. After all their work over the last two years, she wasn't sure how she could cope with Sherlock pulling the rug out from under them with his almost child-like impatience.

When the man in question looked up at her with mildly annoyed understanding in his gaze, a triumphant grin graced her lips. "You are definitely a Holmes." He murmured. Violet snorted, glad that she was welcome to be related to Sherlock Holmes, though still furious at whom she was related to him through. "Thanks." She replied.

"I would like to tell John, though." Sherlock added, making Violet roll her eyes; she doubted that he was insincere, but he'd completely ruined the fond feelings that she'd just been experiencing.

"You are such a knob, sometimes." She informed him smartly, at which he grinned ruefully, knowing that she'd still give him whatever he needed. "Can you let _me_ do it?" She asked patiently, "I know he'll understand why you jumped. I've seen his blog; he looks like a reasonable sort of bloke, but I can explain everything on the quiet and hopefully that way, there won't be any scenes."

Sherlock wanted to argue. He wanted to be the first to tell John. John was _his _friend, after all, but he had a funny feeling that if he simply turned up at John's flat, not looking in the least decomposed after two years of being dead, that John might just punch him in the face and refuse to speak to him.

He nodded. His niece, Violet Sherringford-A.K.A. 'Medusa', could be trusted to do what needed to be done.

**Author's Note: The Soundtrack for this chapter is: 'What the Water Gave Me' by Florence + the Machine.**

**When Odysseus meets the Cyclops in the Odyssey (Book 9 or 10, I think) he introduces himself as 'no man'. The ancient Greek translation is 'me tis', which, combined into 'metis' means cunning. I thought it was appropriate given all the A.K.A.s that we're going to come across. (Yes, I know, I'm an insufferable smart arse, but I'm having too much fun).**

**I should also say that 'Dracula'='Count Frederick Oliver Pearce'=Ollie/Oliver. I just read it through and wasn't sure if it was clear enough. If it wasn't, you now know. **

**Enough from me: Please Read, Review and Enjoy }-) **


	3. First Meeting

**Chapter 3: First Meeting**

_Two Years Ago:_

It was cold. Actually, it was fucking freezing, not to mention that it was raining and Violet didn't have enough money for the bus fare home. It was simply 'one of those days', she supposed, but that didn't stop her from hating everyone and everything in the world.

How dared he call her stupid? She would bet that she was a better programmer than all of her University lecturers put together-and Gordon Hames PhD _certainly_! She'd made a suggestion about the security of the university skydrive when she'd noticed a tiny breach (which she'd wormed her way through the night before).

"_Violet__," _he'd said laughingly, _"you'd have to be stupid to think that anyone could hack into the skydrive through _that_ tiny a breach." _

The thing was, she had already done it. She knew that she shouldn't feel so angry and unappreciated, especially considering that if anyone knew how brilliant she was, they'd have locked her up a while ago-probably in Guantanamo Bay. But she was bored. She'd just recently hacked into the most secure computer in the country - scratch that – the _world_, officially gaining 'Mycroft' status, which was great and everything, but it meant that she had nothing left to do; she could hack into anything she liked; she could manipulate whoever she liked; she could probably rule the world from her dingy little room in Fallowfield.

But what was the point?

Sherlock Holmes had gone and made himself a bad name with the press, and consequently the rest of the world, too, before killing himself, and she'd thought about making it a little project of hers to vindicate him, but, again, what was the point if he was already dead?

Apparently, you're meant to grieve for the loss of family, but the sad fact was that she simply didn't know Sherlock, her uncle well enough. No doubt she'd simply have been another nameless idiot to him if she had. He did like to think that he was better than everybody else, and it rubbed people up the wrong way. It was just a shame that he seemed to have rubbed the wrong people up the wrong way.

But there was no point in mourning for a dead man that you didn't know, was there? And she had a Red Dwarf marathon to be making her way to. Violet heaved a sigh and trudged up Oxford Road and turned right, toward her hosts' flat, making a futile attempt to ignore the raindrops that shot against her icy skin like bullets.

If her iPod hadn't been out of battery, she wouldn't have heard the scuffling sound that came from down a particularly grimy side-street. She wouldn't have heard the drunken guffaws and the pained grunts and she probably wouldn't have gone to investigate – curiosity and ire piqued.

Violet couldn't be shocked by many things. She'd been around drugs, booze and bloody fist – knife fights, thanks to her grandparents, who simply didn't want to know of their daughter or her illegitimate sprog. She couldn't be shocked by the coldness of humanity, or by its selfish madness.

She could be shocked by the sight of a pale, far-too-thin man in a long, woollen coat being kicked to the floor by a gang of petty thugs. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't…

Sherlock Holmes was not in Manchester.

Under normal circumstances, Violet wouldn't have known what to say upon meeting her uncle, her flesh and blood. At seeing him spitting out blood in time with every brutal thump against his ribs, however, she knew precisely what to say.

"Oi! You little shits!" she hollered, charging down the dank alley in her sodden leather trenchcoat and knee-high Doc Martens. "Get the fuck away from him!" she shrieked needlessly as the cowardly little bastards fled. One of the slower ones, a sallow, greasy-haired lad, got a swift kick and a shove into a nearby brick wall before he took the hint and sprinted out, onto the main road.

As her breath misted in the cold, moist air, Violet clenched and unclenched her fists, not so much in anger as in fear. She'd never done anything so reckless in her life. But as she turned to the sound of muted groaning, she figured that it was probably worth it.

She strode over to the figure scrambling up from the ground. "Are you ok?" she asked breathlessly, wanting to hear her uncle's voice for herself for the first time, even if it was just to tell her something as mundane as 'I'm fine'.

"Yes, yes. Go away." The drenched figure snarled, blue-grey eyes icy. He turned and began limping away before stumbling and collapsing against a graffiti-ed wall. "You need help." She pointed out.

"Yes." The man agreed in a monotone, "but not from you."

"From whom, then?" she demanded, her face flushing with embarrassment, hurt and anger, "there's no-one else here, unless you have an invisible friend."

It was then that the late Sherlock Holmes turned and looked at the girl who'd barraged into his existence while he'd been busy procuring some much-needed 'recreational medication' (admittedly getting beaten up in the process). And he really looked:

**Running makeup-no foundation-Wet, purple hair-roots showing…Not much money, probably a student;**

**Leather trenchcoat-wide hood-Black blouse-long, woollen fingerless gloves…A Goth. Trenchcoat too expensive for her so must have been a gift from someone wealthy;**

**Pen ink on left palm-cheap rings-one thick stainless steel band with a razorblade motif-one embellished by a plastic jewel embedded in a decorous frame…Definitely student, gets bored in lectures, intelligent, probably more so than lecturers/tutors;**

**Fingernails bitten-overweight-heavy rucksack decorated with skulls…Sedentary life, probably in front of a computer, computer programmer.**

After little more than three seconds he asked: "Firefly or Juggernaut?"

Without hesitation, Violet replied: "Juggernaut."

"Aren't you going to ask me how I know?" he enquired, his tone simultaneously tainted with pain and exhaustion and the irrepressible desire to show off. She grinned through the rain, and suddenly Sherlock couldn't quite shake the feeling that she looked familiar.

"I already know." She said smugly.

"What's your name?"

"Violet Sherringford." Ah, of course.

"You're rather good."

"How d'you know that?"

"I thought you already knew-"

"Indulge me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. She knew she was good, but she still needed to know how good, she needed an ego boost. It reminded him uncomfortably of someone he knew uncomfortably well.

"You're a Hacker disguised a student studying computer programming at a former polytechnic, but I don't think whether or not the university was a Red-brick influenced your decision; you're overweight and your makeup is almost minimally applied-you make an effort, but don't have time to spend applying it perfectly; you're an unemployed first-year student being subsidised by someone with money, probably as an investment, which means that you have some skill at your craft, so you spend the majority of your free time hacking, which means, again that you must have some skill; the fact that you're Juggernaut-the hacking equivalent of a colonel-at your age means that you are exceptional at what you do; you told me your name because you think you can trust me-you recognised me, but not merely from what's being said in the media, which means that you don't depend on the idiots around you to tell you how it is.

"All of that means that you're someone I can use. Someone I can trust."

Violet's grin relaxed into a contented smile and she noted softly that he wasn't bad, either. Sherlock snorted, "I'm a genius."

"And so modest." She murmured with a sarcastic roll of her eyes.

"Modesty's a waste of time." Sherlock muttered before wincing.

"Come on," Violet sighed, taking a step toward him, "we need to get you some help."

"No."

"You _need_ to get yourself looked at. Not at a hospital, obviously; we're going to my friend's for a movie marathon. Everyone who's going to be there is trustworthy, and one of them is studying medicine, so she can see whether or not you're dying while the rest of us watch Red Dwarf." Violet said patiently, "Then, tomorrow, we can see about you running off to do whatever you need to do, yes?"

If she were being honest, she half – expected him to say 'no', but of course few people could properly anticipate Sherlock Holmes, and sadly, she wasn't one of them.

"Fine." He said.

Not for the reasons Violet Sherringford thought, though; he didn't want to be 'looked at' or to watch Red Dwarf (whatever that was) and he was fairly sure that he could do without a Hacker if need be.

It was simply that he wanted to know why the hell Mycroft's daughter (there was, honestly, no denying the resemblance) was running around Manchester in the rain instead of tucked up safely in Oxford or Cambridge. He wanted to know why she wanted nothing to do with her father; judging by her clothes, she seemed to have subconsciously refused any affiliation with him whatsoever, not that Sherlock could blame her? More importantly, why was his brother not aware of his child's existence?

**Author's Note: Right, firstly, I'd like to say thank you to everyone who's favourited and/or alerted this story.**

**Secondly: the Soundtrack for this chapter is Teardrop by Massive Attack and/or Shock Me Peter by Johnny Hollow (the latter being amazing and yet heinously underrated). If you hadn't guessed by now, yes, I am making up a soundtrack for this :)**

**For those who don't know, Red Dwarf is a British comedy series by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, which I absolutely _love. _It's about the last human being alive sharing a mining ship (called Red Dwarf) with a hologram of his unlikeable dead bunkmate, a being evolved from his pet cat (Danny John Jules is a legend!), an android and the senile ship's computer. Go look it up-it's amazing, though I dread to think what our darling/not-so-darling Sherlock would make of it. XD **

**Also, I'm hoping that this chapter actually makes sense; like I said before, I have no idea about hacking or computer programming or _anything_. So, fingers crossed! **

**The long and short of it is: please review as I'd really like to know what you think (i.e. whether or not I should continue) }-) **


	4. Dulce et Decorum Est

**Chapter 4: Dulce et Decorum Est **

When they got into her friend's flat without once having to ring a buzzer, as Violet knew all of the codes to the doors, Sherlock began to wish he'd never come. Sat on the floor, beneath various blankets and duvets, like children holding a slumber party, were eight university students

**Two studying English**

**One studying Medicine**

**Three studying Computer Programming**

**One studying History**

**One studying Spanish**

"Hiya." Violet called gaily, more to acknowledge their presence than to announce her own, to which they responded with like greetings and smiles.

In the meantime, Sherlock took his time assessing the information laid out before him. That is, until two of the students on the floor shot him strange looks and then began staring at him.

"Staring's rude, you know, guys." Violet informed them lightly, slipping off her drenched, black coat before gesturing for Sherlock's. At first he was about to refuse, until her brows arched in a familiarly patronising manner and she said: "If we dry it, we can get off all the mud that's up the back. Give it here."

With a swift eye-roll and an ignoring grunt, he shucked off his Belstaff coat and flung it at her.

"Thank you." She murmured, turning to the whole room who, as one now, were staring at Sherlock.

"Guys, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is the Nerdfighter Society: there's Charlie, Erin, Nina, Stella, Laurie, Sean, Andy and Ashley." She didn't bother to point them out, knowing that the late, great Sherlock Holmes would be able to tell whom was who.

As she hung up the coats and zipped off her shoes, she turned to Ashley and murmured: "I found him in the street; he's been pretty badly kicked in-I don't suppose you could look him over for me?"

"Yeah, sure." Ashley replied with a smile, her eyes flicking reassuringly to Sherlock's.

"Sherlock?" Violet called, suddenly remembering something of paramount importance..

"What?"

"_Be nice_." At this, he bristled.

"But-"

"No 'buts'. This isn't up for negotiation; these are my friends and I won't have you upsetting them."

"It's okay." Someone interjected brightly, making Violet close her eyes against a sudden headache. Fine, she supposed, it was their funeral.

Meanwhile, Ashley was bustling around, first aid kit in hand, along with a few supplies bought off eBay. "Can you sit down and take your shirt off?" She asked, as Sherlock's expression turned more and more sour. He did, however, do as she asked.

"Is it all set up?" I asked Andy, who was in charge of the TV/computer for the night.

"Yeah" he replied, absently, still sneaking awed glances.

"We were just waiting for you." Charlie added, wiping black lipstick from her lips.

…

It was safe to say that Sherlock and Red Dwarf were never going to mix. One was a raving pedant whilst the other was a TV programme that couldn't care less about continuity or anything as petty as that. Apparently the former couldn't stand the latter:

"There's no way that a cat would evolve opposable thumbs."

"If there were a cat-species on board, surely they wouldn't just leave the remains of the humans lying about."

"The radiation they're talking about wouldn't take three million years to dissipate."

But nobody minded. Or if they did, to their credit, they didn't show it.

Eventually, though, people left or drifted off to sleep, so that, at four-thirty in the morning, only Violet and Sherlock were left awake.

"Can I ask you a question?" Violet asked, rubbing at her eyes.

"What is it?" He replied, eyes closed and body tensed.

"You died-"

"That isn't a question, and funnily enough, it is demonstrably untrue."

"Why did you do it? _How _did you do it, come to that?" frustration coloured her tone.

Silence reigned between them for a brief time before Sherlock decided to answer.

"You believe that Moriarty was real." It wasn't a question, but Violet chose to treat it as one.

"Yes." She said.

…

_One Month Ago:_

He was looking down from the roof of St. Bart's. Normally, he wasn't one to point out the obvious, but it was a rather long way down. Of course, it would have to be. His breath shuddered reluctantly out of him.

He didn't look back at Moriarty's corpse. He'd expected the Consulting criminal to pull a stunt like this, but he hadn't expected to be so shocked by it. He saw dead bodies all the time. Perhaps that was the problem; he'd seen dead bodies, but he'd never before seen someone _die_. He tried to delete the image of the madman blowing his brains out. There were more important things to consider, after all: John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Everyone. They would be killed if he didn't jump.

He knew that this was coming, his 'suicide', and he'd prepared for it. Stress balls were wonderful things, with so many different uses. He'd done the rest of it; he'd played along with Jim; he'd broken John's heart. All that was left now was to make that leap…So he did.

Freefall is a curious thing, he mused, just before he hit the ground…

When he regained consciousness, it was to the sound of a plastic zip and a woman's voice calling his name: "Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock?"

"M-m-ly."

"Good. That's good. Come on then. Let's get you cleaned up." Molly Hooper's dainty hands ran over his skin, checking for broken bones and bruises. Every so often, she'd come across one that had her patient wincing and she apologised softly, her shy, brown eyes meeting his flinty ones for half-a-moment.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?" asked Molly, her voice businesslike, but somehow subdued, as if waiting to flinch from one of his scathing remarks. Sherlock shook his head: "No. I need to leave London immediately."

"Where will you go?"

"To start, Manchester."

"Right."

When she finished her examinations, he asked: "Did you manage to find my replacement?"

…

_One Month Later (i.e. Red Dwarf marathon):_

Violet nodded; everything that Sherlock had told her made complete sense, and yet it was a story that you just couldn't make up. "Wow." She said simply.

"Why Manchester, then?" she enquired with a frown.

"I was hoping to find someone who could help me." He answered.

"With what?" she would have ignored his exasperated sigh, had it not been followed by:

"How is it that even my brother's offspring can be so stupid?"

"What!" shock smeared itself over her broad features.

"Oh, please, it's obvious that you're his. Though I wonder why he doesn't know..."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She snapped.

"Don't be tiresome. Mycroft is excellent at that, too. Have you accessed his computer, yet?"

Gritting her teeth, Violet could see that it was a very bad idea to try lying to her uncle. So she told him the truth. "Yes."

"Hmm. I'm impressed."

"No you're not." She muttered,

"True; with your brains, that's hardly an impressive feat. So what did you do?"

Violet smirked, remembering just how childish she'd been when she finally got into Mycroft Holmes' computer. "I changed his desktop background so that it said: MY NAME IS MYCROFT AN' I IS VER CLEVA, INNIT! and I switched around all his files. I found that far too enjoyable - it took him ages to put it right."

"That was you?" Sherlock asked in surprise, before his mouth curled into a wide smile, "He did mention something like that; he was paranoid for about three weeks ... I think I rather _like _you."

Violet would never admit it, but her heart skipped a beat. Sherlock Holmes approved of her. Her uncle _liked_ her. If she were anyone else, she'd have burst into happy tears or made a speech. As it was, she merely said: "That's nice. But it would be even nicer if he wasn't told about me." Sherlock measured that for a moment before nodding. "I think that can be arranged. That is, if you can get me out of the country."

Violet smiled for what seemed like the hundredth time, that night. Of course, it was the best day of her life so far. "Deal." She said.

**Author's Note: Right, first things first: thank you so much to Alaris24 for your review (I did a pitiful little victory dance, I was so happy). And, yeah, I thought Mycroft was a bit of a tool, but then again, I really like his character…oh…what to do!**

**Also I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the real Nerdfighter Society, who I hope don't mind me using our weekly movie marathons as a setting…and no, we don't fight Nerds (just sayin').**

**Anyhoo, the Soundtrack for this chapter is: Spitfire by the Prodigy**

'**Dulce et Decorum Est' is a poem by WW1 poet Wilfred Owen, the title of which is pulled from one of the Roman poet Horace's works: 'Dulce et Decorum Est, pro Patria Mori', which means: 'It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country' (again, I felt a bit like being a smart arse)**

**I'm really hoping that Sherlock isn't too OOC, and that Moira isn't just one of those annoying OCs (I've written plenty of those) So I'd really appreciate it if you could all tell me what you think-i.e. review! Because, you see, Reviews make the world go round. }-)**


	5. The Ghost in the Machine

**Chapter 5: The Ghost in the Machine**

_Present day (Two years since Dulce et Decorum Est):_

Whenever Dr. John Watson opened his fridge he half-hoped that he'd find someone's eyes, or their head or their thumbs or something equally stomach-wrenching within. He opened it again, this evening, painfully having to remind himself, yet again, that he wasn't going to see anything out of the ordinary anymore. Not since...

He had once-just the once. He'd woken up one morning with the worst hangover in the world and opened the fridge to find a flattened, bloody squirrel. For half a second, he'd felt a flush of sheer relief and happiness, until, that is, he realised that he'd put it there the night before, when he was pissed as a newt, as a morbid sort of housewarming present to himself. Never again did he want to feel that kind of disappointment.

But today there was no squirrel. Thank God; he hadn't been able to get the stench of decomposing road-kill out of his flat for days, he thought as he made himself a cup of tea with the last of the milk in the fridge. He'd have to go and get some milk later; not like there was anyone else to get it, he mused, sitting down to his laptop, where he'd been writing up that email asking his landlord to get the boiler fixed. Again.

221b had never had a dodgy boiler, not unless…his flatmate…had been tinkering with it, which surprisingly hadn't happened often. God, he missed that old place; he visited Mrs Hudson every so often, and she was always telling him that he was more than welcome to move back in, that she didn't want anybody else moving in just because 'Sherlock Holmes the Fake Genius' had lived there, once upon a time.

"I can't go back there. 's not right." He told himself, taking a tentative sip of his tea.

Just for a second, his eyes flickered to his computer screen and saw something simply bizarre.

"That's funny." He murmured as the mouse began to move across the screen without any interference on his part. He wiggled his mouse, but the mouse only seemed to move in the opposite direction.

He'd have thought that it was Mycroft being a smarmy, self-important bastard, demonstrating that he had so much power that he could hack into his very computer, but the mouse opened a word document. John was fairly sure that if Mycroft wanted to speak to him, he'd text or email or, more than likely, kidnap him off the street in one of those ominous-looking government cars.

"**Dr. Watson, if you are there, would you please type?" **The words suddenly appeared on the otherwise blank word document, as if a ghost had somehow infested his laptop. **"Dr. Watson," **it continued, **"I can see you through your webcam; I know you're there. Please type."**

With a bemused scowl, John began slowly typing: **"Who is this?"**

Again, the ghostly words rapidly typed: **"I'm afraid I can't tell you, Dr. Watson. Suffice it to say that something is going to happen, and when it does, you will be needed."**

Brow puckered even further in confusion and quietly building anger, John replied simply: **"Why?"**

To which the words appeared: **"There is not enough time to answer all of your questions; we have approximately two minutes before there is a raid on your flat. When the time comes, you will be required to work with our associate. If need be, he can work without you, but he would prefer otherwise.**

"**Dr. Watson, it has been two years since Sherlock Holmes fell. But I think you should know that he never truly died."**

Before John could furiously demand a straight answer from whoever was controlling his laptop, the last two words of this conversation appeared:

"**Time's up."**

Almost immediately, a whole troop of masked, black-clothed men brandishing AK47s broke down the door with a crash and a flurry of garbled orders, grabbed the doctor, tied his hands and shoved a cloth bag over his head. Then, as quickly as they'd broken in, they left, dragging John Watson with them.

In the meantime, all evidence of the ghost in the machine was wiped away…

**Author's Note: As far as I'm concerned, it's about bloody time John showed up! XD Anyhoo, I want to thank everybody who's favourited and/or alerted this story; it really means the world to me. I also want to thank both Alaris24 and Magesa for reviewing – it's important for me to know what I'm doing right and what I could be doing better, so…*hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink* ;)**

**Magesa-I hope I'm not being too much of a smart alec; I just love the fact that Sherlock is basically all about being a smart alec and I wanted to carry that into this, the only problem being that I haven't read the books and so can't make references in the same way Moffat and Gatiss do. :)**

**Lastly, the Soundtrack for this little chappie is (and though I'm not too sure about the relevance of the title or the lyrics, the music behind it really is the tone I was going for): 4 O'clock by Emilie Autumn.**

**Review? (Pretty please?) }-)**


	6. Medusa

**Chapter 6: Medusa**

John was fairly sure he knew who was behind this, and the thought caused a cold sweep of rage to swamp him. But he couldn't be entirely sure, so he kept his mouth shut, knowing that if he tried to escape he'd never make it, anyway. And besides, Mycroft had never kidnapped him so dramatically; the first time had been subtle: payphones ringing as he passed them; CCTV cameras following his every move; a sleek, shiny car with tinted windows gliding up the pavement.

He could hear the purring of the car's engine through the bag that they'd dragged over his head, could feel it through his skin, even. He could make out the vague shape of two men in the car with him and the thought occurred that he bloody hoped that it was Mycroft orchestrating this. He had made such a mistake before, and had been faced with _The Woman_ instead.

All the muscles in his body tensed when the car came to a stop. He supposed he'd now find out precisely who was behind this, and what they wanted with him.

He didn't struggle when they hefted him out of the car, into the cold, winter air, and he didn't lash out when they cut the cable ties binding his hands and whipped the cloth bag off his head.

Instead, he glowered at the man who'd ordered the whole thing.

"Hello John." His voice was as calm as it had been the first time they'd met; calm, and just a little bit mocking, "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough." John retorted sharply, his hands fisting at his sides as he watched his captors retreat to a discreet distance. No emotion showed on Mycroft Holmes' face at John's hostility, he merely studied the pointed end of his ever-present umbrella. "How have you been?" he asked, his tone completely, neutrally cordial.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John snapped, definitely not in the mood to deal with Sherlock's elder brother.

"What do you know about 'Medusa'?" Mycroft enquired, his tone all politeness. A mirthless laugh escaped John: "I don't believe this. You sent your own little private army to smash my door down so that you could get me to tell you about a mythological woman with snakes in her hair, who can turn people into stone?"

"No, John." The umbrella tip hit the ground with an exasperated _tap_, "I arranged this meeting so that you could tell me if you've been contacted by a Hacker under the alias 'Medusa'."

"Well, I haven't." John said shortly, "And you do realise that you're going to be paying to have that door replaced, don't you?" he hoped that Mycroft didn't detect his lie – well, _half_-lie – it wasn't like the person that had taken over his computer had given their name, though, funnily enough, they had anticipated that this would happen. Equally strangely, he felt much more kindly disposed to that Hacker than to the man stood opposite him, in his bland, three-piece suit and overcoat.

When Mycroft didn't press further, he had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

"I take it you haven't heard from Sherlock, either." Mycroft murmured, his eyes boring into John's digging for the truth.

"Of course I haven't heard from Sherlock. The man _has _been dead for two years. Or have you just completely lost the plot?" Acknowledging the jibe with only a condescending roll of his eyes, Mycroft proceeded:

"My personal computer was recently hacked into, and I was left a _delightful _little note by 'Medusa'. Upon investigation, it seems that, over the past two years, many people have had like messages, including persons of my own acquaintance. And all of the messages pertain to Sherlock. Rather odd, don't you think, John?"

Blinking, John remembered what he'd been told: **I think you should know that he never truly die**_**d.**_

"John?"

"You don't think _I'm_ 'Medusa' do you?" he asked, injecting incredulity into his tone, knowing perfectly well that Mycroft knew that he wasn't. "Your flippancy isn't helping." Mycroft replied coldly, "The extent of your programming skills is writing that blog-which I notice you haven't updated since Sherlock fell-"

"Do you have _any_ sensitivity whatsoever?"

"The only person who has ever been able to hack into my personal computer was Sherlock. And that was only because he was able to deduce his way through my security. And I am certain that Sherlock is not the one disguising himself as 'Medusa'"

"Maybe you need to up your security, then." John smirked.

"Evidently." Mycroft said coldly. He knew what John Watson thought of him, and he agreed. But certain things had come to light in the last two years, which had left Mycroft Holmes mildly perturbed, especially so, recently, because despite all of his best efforts, he hadn't been able to track down 'Medusa'. The long and short of it was that he felt ignorant and impotent, and he didn't like the feeling at all.

John was lying. He knew it. He also knew that it would simply be counter-productive to haul the man in for questioning. So he let him go back to his little flat with the assurance that his door would be replaced the following day.

John, however, didn't stay in his flat, that night; instead, he grabbed his laptop and paid a visit to 221b Baker Street. He had this feeling in his gut; something big, something wonderful, something terrible was going to happen, and he needed to be here. Never mind that the door to 221b hadn't been destroyed by Mycroft's goons.

Sherlock's chemistry equipment had been packed away, just as Mrs Hudson said, and had been donated to a school. Except the microscope; they'd found an engraving on that which meant that it had to be kept safe:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_For your 21__st__ birthday,_

_Mummy_

His skull, however, remained in pride of place on the mantelpiece, grinning at the empty sitting room.

As John sat down in his chair, he nodded and said hello to "Skeletor". He then opened his laptop and pulled up his blog. As Mycroft has observed, he hadn't touched it since the 16th of July two years ago, and the hit counter was _still_ at 1895 (he hadn't been bothered about getting that fixed).

Feeling a brilliant, inexplicable, sizzling feeling in heart, he typed: **"Hello, long time no see. Something is going to happen. I can't tell you what, how or why, but I know that **_**something**_** is going to happen." **

After that, he just stared at the computer screen. It was half-past two in the morning and he had to get up for work, soon, but he didn't care. A mysterious, inexplicable grin curled around his mouth when, despite his having disabled comments, a comment appeared from 'Medusa':

"**Hello Dr. Watson, it's good to know you think so."**

**Author's Note: Hmm…what do you think? Have I got John right? Have I got Mycroft right? Am I going in the right direction?**

**Also, the soundtrack for this one is Sweet Dreams by Emily Browning. **


	7. A Firefly on the Windscreen

**Chapter 7: A Firefly on the Windscreen**

'Medusa' had never gotten a 505 before. The one she received shortly after posting on John Watson's blog was her very first, in fact, but it couldn't have come from a worse source or at a worse time.

A 505 was a Hacker's SOS call. This particular 505 was from a Firefly under the alias of 'Serenity269', who moonlighted as a part-time journalist, and who'd been charged with writing an article, telling the truth about Sherlock Holmes.

With a bemused frown, Violet opened the ominous video call and clicked 'record'.

"_Er, hello? Hello, is that 'Medusa'?" T_he young woman on the screen asked tearfully.

"Yes, yes. I'm here. What is it?" Violet asked, knowing that though she could see the other Hacker, for safety's sake, the other Hacker couldn't see her.

"_I've been hacked. They've got everything-all our work-all our information. They know what we're doing-they know Sherlock Holmes is alive." the girl sobbed, "I'm so, so sorry."_

"Who knows?" Violet demanded, feeling her back tense and her knuckles clench.

"_I don't know. I swear I don't. I tried tracing them, but I got nothing except a message-"_

"What does the message say?"

"_It's a timer. It's counting down-"_

"Counting down to _what_?"

"_Five…four…three…two…"_ the girl's eyes glazed over in realisation and resignation just before she said: _"One."_

Before Violet knew what had happened, there was the sound of glass smashing and a tiny 'thump'. And then, eyes glassy, 'Serenity269' slumped forward, her head hitting the keyboard.

Eyes wide in shock, Violet asked weakly: "Hello? 'Serenity269' come in…What's going on?" Of course Violet knew what had happened; someone had discovered that Sherlock Holmes was alive, someone who knew precisely who he was: a genius consulting detective with a penchant for pissing off the wrong people, and that person did not want that information getting out.

Less than an hour later, Violet having calmed down, was re-watching the footage with 'Dracula' and Sherlock after the former had sent a car, determined that no way in hell was she to get on a bus.

"You see the laser-sight trained on her forehead?" Sherlock mused, "It's not wavering; whoever is holding that gun knows precisely what they're holding; it's not just a toy that their mate from down the pub got them; so they must have military training. They must have been exceptional-"

"Yeah, could you try not complimenting the guy who killed our friend to our faces, please?" Oliver ('Dracula') interjected furiously.

"She wasn't your _friend_; you've never met her in her in your life-" Sherlock scoffed.

"Not now!" Violet hissed at them, to which Oliver looked away bashfully whilst Sherlock continued his analysis of the video: "Whoever shot this woman was employed alongside someone who knows how to hack into someone's computer without leaving a trace. But they waited for her to call you; they wanted you to see her die. But it wasn't just a warning - they could have just sent you a message; they're telling you to _run_." He slumped into his leather armchair and steepled his fingers, thinking.

"Moriarty springs to mind." Oliver murmured absently.

"Only because you're an idiot-" Sherlock muttered, not moving from his pose.

"I beg your pardon?-"

"He shot himself in the head. I watched him do it. That's not something you can fake."

"Unlike jumping off a building." Oliver said sardonically, just holding back from impaling Sherlock with one of his antique spears. Ignoring the sarcasm, Sherlock replied: "Exactly."

"Boys, come on." Violet snapped, "We've gathered that Moriarty's dead; can we move on now?"

"I'm trying to think, but you'd be surprised how many names spring to mind-"

"You mean how many people can't stand the mention, never mind the sight of you? No, I doubt I would be surprised-"

"Right, that's it." Violet sighed, giving the pair of them up as a lost cause as she snapped her laptop shut, "I'm going home."

"No you're bloody not." Oliver said sternly, his steely eyes flashing meaningfully, "You're staying here, where I can keep an eye on you."

"It's not safe to put all your eggs in one basket."

"What on Earth are you-" but before Oliver could finish his question, Sherlock interrupted:

"She means that if someone were to track either of you down here, you'd both be killed quite easily, but if you're in separate locations, at least one of you has a chance of escape. But then you already knew all of that, which means that asking the question that you were going to was entirely pointless. In any case, I agree with her."

At this, Oliver's face contorted into a scowl, and his arms folded themselves. "Fine. But I want you to take care of yourself. And don't take any unnecessary risks."

Violet couldn't help but smile, as she slipped her laptop into its bag and zipped it up. "I'll be fine, I promise. Try not to kill my uncle while I'm gone."

"Ooh," Oliver smirked, "a bit much to ask, don't you think?" to which Violet shook her head and walked out of the door.

"You like her, don't you?" Sherlock murmured, eyes closed, as Oliver took a seat opposite him.

"Of course I like her-"

"No. I mean you want her."

Oliver grimaced, hoping he hadn't been too obvious in his affection toward the girl, who was, unfortunately half his age. "And?" he asked, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

"You'll understand that, as her uncle, when I say that if you upset her unduly, I can't say that I'll be happy."

Oliver couldn't think of anything else to say but: "Fair enough." He just hoped that she didn't get shot before he even had a chance to hurt her.

**Author's Note: I'd like to dedicate this particular chapter to Magesa, just because your reviews completely thrilled me on what was probably the shittest day of my life so far, honestly, thank you, and I hope you enjoy this one.**

**I also hope that Sci-Fi fans get the crappy reference. It's not brilliant, I know, but it's all I've got for this little chappie.**

**And the Soundtrack for this chapter is Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums by A Perfect Circle**

**Review?**


	8. Dear Mr Holmes

**Chapter 8:** **Dear Mr Holmes,**

Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man. His brother, who incidentally was _alive_ and refusing to contact him, had often pointed out that his busyness was to be entirely attributed to the fact that Mycroft Holmes _was _the British Government. But, of course, the man himself would deny it completely. No, he merely occupied a minor position in that most (or least, depending upon which newspaper one was in the habit of purchasing) venerated of institutions.

In short, whichever way one was to look at it, Mycroft Holmes was a _very _busy man. A very busy man who did _not_ wish to be dealing with something ordinarily so inconsequential as a Hacker.

But here he was, having his Friday evening brandy spoilt by a letter which was currently writing itself on his personal computer. Needless to say, the civil servant was not amused as he carelessly gulped the inch of brandy back and informed his P.A. that he wanted this damned Hacker _found_.

Until such a miraculous thing did occur, he knew that he would have to read through the wonderful message that 'Medusa' was leaving him with, this time. It read thus:

"**Dear Mr Holmes,**

**"It has no doubt come to your attention, as it has mine, that someone is particularly partial to your brother remaining a social pariah, even in death. I don't care to speculate on your thoughts on this matter, but I must say that I find myself more than a bit irked. Especially as someone has been killed in the process of rectifying **_**your **_**blubber-brained actions"**

'Blubber-brained'? Interesting…When they were both young, that had been Sherlock's private epithet for him. No one knew about 'Blubber-brain'. Not even Mummy.

"**You and I both know that it was ultimately, albeit indirectly, your act of betrayal which killed Sherlock Holmes, so when I when I refer to you and your actions as 'blubber-brained' do please try to spare me your spluttering indignance; I'm quite sure that the entertainment factor would soon wear thin.**

"**Forgive me; I digress: as you must know, Emily Strange, reporter for 'The News of London' was shot dead in her flat in the wee hours of this morning. I am forwarding to you the video of the event. I do hope you're not squeamish. I ask that you ensure that the body is transferred to St. Bartholomew's Hospital's Morgue where it can be dealt with properly by head Pathologist Molly Hooper; I am aware that she is the country's leading Pathologist and I refuse to have Emily Strange's case scuppered by a lackwit with a scalpel-fetish.**

"**Finally, as I'm sure you've guessed by Dr. John Watson's post on his blog, along with my reply, Sherlock Holmes is alive. Do not try to contact him, because he is a bit put out with me informing you of his vitality, and would probably get a mite worse were you to ruin everything in your incompetent stumbling around.**

"**Lots of love****,**

"'**Medusa'**

"**Xx"**

Mycroft Holmes calmly blinked at his computer screen, which had finally ceased spewing up words, and called his P.A. (whose name, now, was apparently Angela).

"Angela," he greeted pleasantly, his voice perfectly even, "I should very much like to see the name and location of this Hacker on my desk within the next fifteen minutes. If that event does not occur, I fear that mass redundancy levels in the public sector may extend to our department. And you know I'd hate for that to happen" he added dangerously, before hanging up.

Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man occupying a minor position in the British Government, and he did _not_ appreciate being called 'incompetent' by anyone, particularly some anonymous little upstart hiding behind a computer.

Although, to tell the truth, he did rather doubt that they'd find 'Medusa' as she'd covered her tracks perfectly in every aspect of her dealings in cyberspace. If he didn't know better, he'd be inclined to say that she was a genius well worthy of the title. And if, as she implied, she was with his recaltricant younger brother, she certainly would be a force to be reckoned with.

So it was that, whilst he waited for Angela to call back, apologising profusely for not having discovered a blasted thing about 'Medusa', he made some quiet arrangements about having a certain Emily Strange transferred into Miss Hooper's care.

Pouring himself another brandy, Mycroft reflected that he was rather glad that his brother was coming back to London. The two years he'd been gone had been far too long, and far too boring.

**Author's Note: The plot's going to be picking up, now guys! I'm actually really glad, to be honest. I can't wait for everyone to get together – it's gonna be good, I can tell.**

**The Soundtrack for this is: I Know Where You Sleep by Emilie Autumn (I'm sorry, I just have a thing for her music)**

**I have to admit that, I, like every other author here, love every review that I get, be it good or bad, so tell me what you think.**

**Click the button. You know you want to… }-)**


	9. London's Calling

**Chapter 9: London's Calling**

"I need to go back to London."

Nobody could have been happier than the ninth Earl of Stockport upon hearing those words spilling from Sherlock Holmes' lips. Although he was quite sure that the "high-functioning sociopath" was a good guy, he just couldn't stand the arrogant bastard, and he was ecstatic at the prospect of having the house to himself, again.

That wasn't to say that he wouldn't take the man in again if Violet asked him to. She'd been furtive about asking him in the first place, anticipating a solid refusal when she should have known that she'd but needed to say the word.

But though he liked Violet and would do anything for her, it was the fact that Sherlock had accepted her as family without a second thought that prevented Oliver from throwing him out.

The Earl knew that after her mother died, there'd been no-one that Violet could claim as family. Her father was 'in absentia'; she'd had no uncles or aunts or cousins to call upon and her mother's parents; the 'honourable' Lord and Lady Sherringford had refused to acknowledge her existence until a year after she'd been taken into care. And even then they couldn't stand the sight of her.

He first met her when she'd run away from the boarding school that the Sherringfords had sent her to and hacked into his account via a computer in a public library.

He was a Dreadnaught – the best of the best – and _no-one_ should have been able to do that to _him_. He'd tracked her down and found her on a mate's scummy sofa, alone, without family or connection to the world. Her mother was dead, and her father – well…

He never had any intention of becoming a father figure – he wasn't responsible or boring enough to be anyone's father. At first, he'd just wanted to be a friend. He had so few himself, that he knew precisely how precious they were. Now, however, he wanted more but he dared not ask for it; he was too old, too jaded and just a bit too juvenile for her. Yet it hadn't taken long for him to realise that he'd follow Violet Sherringford anywhere – he'd follow her through the gates of Hell, if need be.

Now, she'd eagerly decided to arrange a trip to London. And so London was where they would go.

…

It didn't take a genius to work out that the Earl of Stockport was not a stingy man, Sherlock reflected for the eighteenth time since he'd gotten into the chauffeur-driven Mercedes, three _arduously monotonous_ hours ago.

That was another thing he hated about Manchester; it was far too far from London – from anywhere interesting. Here he was, Sherlock Holmes, reduced to deducing Reg the driver in between bouts of deducing the owners of the cars around them. God help them if they got into a traffic jam.

He supposed that he rather should work out a way of explaining things to John. The idea of their reunion brought a swirl of conflicting certainties. The first, that he couldn't wait to see John, was most prominent. He wanted to tell him about all of his adventures around the globe – no measly sight-seeing for him, no. He wanted to explain why he faked his death, why he made John, Mrs Hudson and the others – if there _were_ others – hurt.

He would never be an expert on the social niceties that occupied everybody else's waking thoughts, but even _he _was sure that making your best friend watch you 'commit suicide' was "a bit not good".

He didn't exactly relish the idea of being punched in the face by the army doctor.

It was another interminable _three_ _hours_ before he recognised his old stomping grounds trailing, little bit by little bit, past his window, and he still hadn't worked out quite what he was going to say. And when the car pulled up outside 'Speedy's Café', he supposed that he may very well just have to wing it – which wasn't a comforting thought, but then, since when did Sherlock Holmes ever need comforting? (Don't answer that).

So, he muttered a cursory thanks to Reg the driver, and got out of the car. He fished the key to his flat out of his pocket and strode up the steps to the front door of 221b. The gleaming, black front door still held all of its old scars – marks of his adventures and misadventures, and there was no sign that the locks had been changed.

In his peripheral, Sherlock could see a curtain twitch and he felt the corners of his mouth lift. Even if John had left Baker Street, Mrs Hudson hadn't. He remembered once exclaiming: "Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall" and he remembered meaning it. She was one of the few people he trusted; she wasn't quite as scatty, naïve or as stupid as she appeared.

So Sherlock Holmes was not completely surprised when she opened the door, smiled and said fondly: "I did wonder when you were going to stop all this nonsense about being dead." He merely gave a mild frown and asked how she'd known.

She ushered him inside and up into the flat he'd once rented with John, exclaiming about the frosty wind and what it did to her hip. He could tell from the way she wasn't looking at him, and the way she kept rambling on, that she'd been instructed not to tell him how she'd known. That meant that someone had told her. That was alright, though; he could wait.

"Now, you sit down, Sherlock, love. And I'll get us a nice cup of tea-"

"Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson." He interjected.

"Black, two sugars, yes dear, I remember. You know, I'll only be doing this the once. I'm your-"

"Landlady, not housekeeper, yes, I know." Sherlock smiled slightly, looking around the sitting room.

Almost everything was as he'd left it. 'Jack' the skull was still on the mantelpiece; he'd refused to call it 'Skeletor', as John had because he'd surmised that the man it came from was more likely to have been called 'Jack'. The jack-knife still pinned his final demands and interview requests to the mantelpiece. The yellow smiley-face with the bullet holes were still up on the wall. Even the slipper where he'd hid his secret stash of cigarettes was in place by the fireplace.

Everything had been kept, though none of it had been used, judging by the thin skin of dust that coated everything. Intriguing.

Even his chair was coated in minute flecks of grey. And John's…

It had been sat in within the last 12 hours, from what he could deduce. His eyes traversed the room and landed at the desk where John often wrote his blog and saw that a laptop (**15 inches – obsolete model – made within the last year – light scratches on the side**) sat there, in plain, unashamed view.

Moira had done her job, then. John knew – and if he'd posted the news, however obliquely, to his blog (Sherlock checked his phone; John had, indeed posted it), then others knew that Sherlock Holmes was back in London.

It was precisely what he needed to draw out the mind behind Emily Strange's assassination. He knew this mind. He knew this mind very well. He ought to; he'd been acquainted with it for over two years.

The tinkling of china brought his mind away from the tantalising prospect of eradicating the last traces of Jim from the world and back to Mrs Hudson's coffee.

"I take it you've noticed that John came back, last night. He seemed very pleased about something. Did _you_ say something to him?" Mrs Hudson enquired, her eyes dancing (she really needed to cut down a little on those _herbal soothers_ but perhaps now wasn't the time to suggest it).

"No, Mrs Hudson. I asked one of my associates to do the honour." Sherlock murmured, taking up his coffee, still standing "Speaking of which, two of them will be turning up, later today."

"What time?"

"Around five o'clock, I'd imagine."

"Oh, well, that'll be nice. Having a full house after all this time…" Mrs Hudson said brightly, though the smile on her face fell a little from her eyes. "Everyone was terribly upset, you know, when they thought you'd died. Especially John. I hope you plan on apologising to him-"

"What about you?" Sherlock asked sharply, his grey eyes shrewd as he looked over his landlady.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You said that you knew that I wasn't dead – how did you know? Well, you didn't know, did you? Someone told you – not outright, maybe – so you inferred it. It wouldn't have been Mycroft-"

"Yes, well, your brother _has_ been very good about the whole thing. He's been paying your rent for the past two years-" Mrs Hudson rambled.

"Please don't change the subject, Mrs Hudson-"

"Someone's been asking about the availability of the flat, Sherlock. Every month, on the sixteenth, for the past year."

"Did they give you a name?"

"No. I mean, I was a bit silly, at first; I just said: "No, the flat's not for rent, I'm afraid." And they just thanked me and hanged up. The second time, I asked them their name and they just said that it didn't matter; they were just a curious about _this _flat.

"You don't know what it's been like." Mrs Hudson said softly, "For the first week, we couldn't move for reporters. The week after that, it was the curiosity seekers – the tourists, wanting to take photographs of where the late Sherlock Holmes: 'conman extraordinaire' lived." She raked him with an admonishing glance that would have done his mother, Violet Rutherford-Holmes, proud.

"I had to." Sherlock said simply, "It wasn't safe for me to remain on the radar." At this Mrs Hudson gave a wan, if knowing smile. It seemed Mycroft had known and told Mrs Hudson when she asked him about the phone calls (because of course that's what she'd do), impressing on her the importance of keeping the whole thing secret.

Just then, the front door opened with a crash and a muffled curse. Mrs Hudson flinched, but Sherlock had been expecting this. Mrs Hudson shot out of her chair (surprisingly sprightly for an old lady with a bad hip) and went to warn John.

"Perhaps it's best if you watch some TV for an hour or so" Sherlock suggested, his voice low, his face an expressionless mask. Mrs Hudson gave a slight nod, an apprehensive smile and hurried out of the door while Sherlock turned to look out of the window and began sipping his coffee.

"Mrs H?" the intruder's bemused tones carried up the stairs, presumably wondering why the landlady was in his flat. "Upstairs." She murmured, making Sherlock roll his eyes. The performer in him didn't want his former flatmate to have warning. He wanted to surprise him. Then again, perhaps it was better this way, he reflected as footsteps, sure and slow, sounded on the stairs and on the threshold.

"Bloody hell."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in a barely suppressed grin. "Hello, John."

**Author's Note: Ok, I know this is a bit late. In fact, I found it really hard to write because I wanted to give 'Dracula' a little bit of limelight after last chapter's revelation, yet I also wanted to get something done (that is, I wanted Sherlock back in 221b).**

**Anyway, here's hoping I've done an ok job (I hope Mrs Hudson isn't too much of a dotty old lady, because I think her character is so much more knowing and interesting than that, in a Joan Hickson Miss Marple kind of way.)**

**Ah well, here's the beginning of the Sherlock and John reunion that we've all been waiting for, I hope it will meet your expectations. I do have to say, though, that I might be a few days in knocking that out, as I have a 2000 word poetry essay on T. S. Eliot that I've been heinously neglecting, so apologies about that.**

**The Soundtrack to this one is: Letter between a Little Boy and Himself as an Adult by Abney Park-another band that I love dearly and doesn't get nearly enough coverage. }-)**

**Review? **


	10. The Game Is On

**Chapter 10: The Game is on**

"Right…well…hi." Was all that John could think of saying, right at this particular moment in time. It wasn't witty, it wasn't clever and it wasn't even remotely intelligent. But then, he supposed he could be forgiven; his best friend – and flatmate, who had apparently committed suicide two years ago, was stood here, in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street instead of lying decomposed beneath the headstone bearing the name: Sherlock Holmes.

Alright, so he had been warned that Sherlock was alive and that he was coming back…and everything. But, honestly, it hadn't seemed real. It had seemed like a game or a dream that he was ready to become unhealthily obsessed with. But it was real, his appearance in this flat proved it. All the warm, fuzzy feelings that he had been feeling were gone, only to be replaced by an overwhelming feeling of hurt and rage. It felt like a game of 'Chicken'; darting out in front of cars, cheating death, was all well and good, until the car was right on top of you.

"I can't do this." He muttered, dropping the carrier bags that he'd been clutching in his fists and turning right back the way he came.

"John – no, wait – John!" Sherlock had expected everything from being used like an oversized tissue to being beaten to death by the army doctor, but he hadn't expected this (well, he had, but he'd pinned this scenario as the least likely one). The slight panic he felt at seeing his friend turn away bled into his voice. It must have done, because thankfully, John stilled at the door.

"I'm sorry." The taller man said quickly, "Everything was falling apart, just the way he planned it; the newspapers called me a fake and the world believed them – you were right, they turned on me at the first opportunity – and no, I shouldn't have let our profile get that high in the first place. Moriarty had me cornered so that he assumed that there was only one way for it to end: with my death – except not, obviously; and that code – the one the assassins were on about – it was a fabrication that was supposed to lead me on, which it did but that's not the point. The point is that I didn't want to do it, but if the snipers didn't see me jump, they'd have killed you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And obviously actually _dying_ wasn't a particularly appealing option, so I had to fake it – don't you see? I'm trying to apologise, you know; the least you could do is answer me-"

"Sherlock, you haven't let me get a word in edgeways," John said with one of his patiently exasperated sighs, before his forehead creased in a frown, "What snipers? There weren't any snipers-"

"Oh, right. I forgot you didn't know – Moriarty had snipers stationed to kill you because simply shooting me wouldn't have fit in with his plans – and he killed himself before I could extract the means of calling off the snipers from him."

"Are you serious? He shot himself? But…_Christ…_he really was insane." He turned and looked Sherlock in the eye for the first time in two years.

"Yes. Yes, he was. Are we going to talk, or are you going to finish walking out?" Sherlock demanded, his glacial eyes unblinking. Waiting. To which John couldn't help but smile; it was good to see the irritating dick again.

"We're good." He murmured.

"Good. I've got to go to Bart's; I don't suppose you'd like to come with-"

"Oh _God_, I thought you'd never ask." John grinned, feeling more whole and complete than he had done in a long time as he and Sherlock ran downstairs and out of the door –

"Well, that didn't take long." Mrs Hudson smiled approvingly to herself as she heard the boys leave.

…

"How have you been?" Sherlock asked once the pair was safely ensconced in a black cab. Just like old times. "Good…good." John murmured, staring absently out of a window onto the grey streets of London.

"You're lying." Sherlock said in his knowing monotone. John's mouth tightened.

"And how would you know that?" he demanded, making a point to not look the other man in the eye; he half suspected that if he could see Sherlock's face, he'd punch it.

Sherlock blinked, noting the tightening of his former blogger's tone, but otherwise pretended that he'd simply been asked to give yet another of his demonstrations of deductive logic.

"You've gotten more grey and you're far paler than when I last saw you; the former would occur through stress while the latter means that you haven't been abroad or anywhere outside in the sun; you've avoided it – why? –"

"Because I've been working." John sighed, "Look, can we just leave it? I understand why you did what you did, and I accept it and forgive you, but I can't just forget the last two years. So can we just – please?"

If the consulting detective was hurt, he didn't let on. Instead, he looked out of the cab window, silently observing that they had around ten minutes until they arrived at Bart's.

"You kept Jack." Sherlock murmured.

"Jack?"

"My skull –"

"Oh, you mean Skeletor."

"His name's Jack, you know."

"Did you never watch 'He-man'?" John asked with a faint smile, "I still think you should call it Skeletor-"

"Please do introduce me to anyone you know who answers to the name 'Skeletor'," Sherlock smirked, to which John shook his head with a chuckle and a groan.

"Are we seriously having this old argument, again?

"It appears so." Sherlock replied simply.

"So, why are we going to Bart's, then?" John enquired, feeling, for some reason, immeasurably better. He frowned, however, when he noticed that Sherlock wasn't grinning at the prospect of a new case.

"I have a niece." Sherlock began, "She's the Hacker who took control of your laptop, two nights ago, just before you got carried off by Mycroft. She and a few of her 'connections' – as she likes to call them – have been working on rebuilding my public credibility and on proving that Rich Brook was, in fact, Moriarty.

"Shortly after she spoke to you, she got a video call from one of her connections: 'Serenity269', a Hacker known to the rest of the world as Emily Strange, a journalist working for 'The News of London'. She'd been writing an article proclaiming my innocence until she was hacked. Whoever hacked into her computer took all of her research notes, along with information of what she'd been doing over the last few months, and then had her shot on-video.

"Her body was transferred to Bart's early this morning."

Perhaps it was wrong of him, but the only piece of information that John was hung up on was the fact that Sherlock had a niece. Sherlock took one look at him and smirked. "No. I didn't know, either."

"She's not Mycroft's, is she?" John asked, his eyes wide with disbelief. When Sherlock didn't answer, he choked back a giggle. "I can't imagine him being a parent."

"He doesn't know." Sherlock chuckled.

"You're _joking_!" John gasped.

"I'm not."

"Jesus…what's her name?"

"Violet Sherringford." Sherlock answered with a grin before glancing out of the window to see the off-white walls of Bart's Hospital rising up, out of the ground. "We're here."

…

"I'm sorry, I cannot let you in." the Nigerian Morgue assistant told them for the third time.

"Of course you can, you can simply open the door and let me look at Emily Strange's body. It's hardly difficult." Sherlock snapped, almost ready to physically incapacitate this annoying assistant, who only been working in the Morgue for a _week_, judging by the state of his cuffs – "Look," John interjected with a frustrated grimace, "where's Dr Hooper?"

"Molly?" the assistant frowned dumbly,

"Yes Molly! Are there any other Dr Hoopers working at Bart's?" Sherlock cried, before turning away and taking out his Blackberry and calling Molly before the assistant could tell him that it was her day off.

Unfortunately, the number that he had for Molly was now defunct. She'd bought a new phone and changed her number – as Sherlock would have known if he'd contacted her at all in the last two years since she'd helped him 'die'.

With a childish groan and a sigh, he called someone who would know how to track his pathologist down:

"Violet, I need you to track down a mobile phone number for me. Yes. Belonging to Dr Molly Hooper. Her Personal Information? Her mother's maiden name, _obviously_. Text me the number when you're done." He ended the call with a flourish and waited for the text, coldly eyeing the assistant.

"So," John said, trying to be friendly to make up for Sherlock's frank offensiveness, "how long have you been working here?"

"A week." the assistant answered, "You know, you really cannot be here." He pleaded.

Just then, Sherlock's phone beeped shrilly: **MH mob: 07734 23 96 91. I expect chocolate as recompense. Xs. **

Almost immediately, Sherlock was on the phone to Molly Hooper, demanding that she make her way down here as her assistant was being particularly annoying.

…

"You know these men, Molly?" the assistant said weakly, looking at the pale, delicate woman with a newfound respect. Molly, in turn smiled, shrugged and asked him to get her a coffee: Milk – two sugars, please, Nathaniel.

As the assistant hurried gratefully away, she turned on John and Sherlock. "You didn't have to scare him like that." To which John spluttered:

"Wait, hold on – you're not surprised that he's not – oh, forget it." He sighed. Molly grimaced, understanding that John must feel betrayed, but she didn't stop to talk; she pulled out Emily Strange's corpse. It was strange, really; she'd gotten a call in the middle of the night, telling her that she had a new body on her list and it was to be treated with extreme care –

"You should leave him, you know." Sherlock murmured absently, bending over the body.

"I-I-I'm sorry?"

"Your fiancé. He doesn't appreciate you. He's jealous and he demands your time and attention like a child." She didn't ask how he knew. She wasn't sure that she particularly wanted to know. But he was right. And she had been thinking about calling the whole thing off, anyway, but that wasn't the point. In the last two years, she'd felt like she'd grown up a lot. Perhaps it was the fact that Sherlock wasn't around to make her feel like a silly love-struck teenager. And now that he was here, again, she saw him through fresh eyes, eyes that knew that he needed to be put in his place, once in a while. "Hmm. Reminds me of you a bit." She smiled, instinctively softening the verbal slap.

Sherlock looked at her, but didn't answer, and John stared at something on the ceiling which had suddenly become ever so interesting.

"Yes. Definitely assassination – look at the size of the bullet-hole – and it's clean; straight through; no fragmentation. I'll need to see the bullet to determine the type of gun it came from." Molly nodded and told him that it was upstairs, in the lab and without a word, Sherlock left to get on with his experiments.

That left John and Molly, both straining a little under the awkward silence, to put away the body.

…

Just as Sherlock was about to look through the microscope at the flattened bullet, he got two texts. Rolling his eyes, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and read: **Welcome home-M**

The other one was from 'Dracula': **There's been another one.-D**

Thirty seconds later, there was another one from 'Dracula': **Get the strange old lady to let us in, would you? We've got work to do.-D**

He hadn't expected them to be this early – it was only half past two in the afternoon, so Mrs Hudson wouldn't be expecting them and therefore wouldn't let them in. At this, Sherlock couldn't help but inwardly smirk: in the virtual world, Hacker's were kings, in the real world, they were little more than children.

**Author's Note: I know this has been a long time in coming, and the next one will probably be, as well, sorry about that, but I can't help how evil coursework is. **

**I really want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter (I think that's the most reviews I've got for a chapter on this story, so YAY!)**

**Magesa-I love all of your reviews: I'm so glad that I've made you happy in the midst of your essays, and I hope that John and Sherlock's reunion was worth the wait. And Mrs Hudson is one of those people who are simply brilliant, isn't she? I really wanted to do her justice, just as I hope to for all the other characters. **

**CheyanneChika-Thanks so much for reviewing; I hope this thing keeps you suitably intrigued. As for Moira (now known as Violet) and Mycroft, I just wanted someone other than Sherlock to push his buttons; he knows how Sherlock rolls too well. **

**Alaris24- I hope the reunion was good for you. I didn't want it to be too sad and overly dramatic, but I didn't want it to be completely ignored, either. I always think that John and Sherlock's emotions are really subtle, though they are there, so I wanted to reflect that…sorry, I'm rambling. Anyway, I hope you liked it **

**I'm sorry if I went on a bit too long about the skull, I just like the idea that John and Sherlock have two different names for it. John watched too much He-man as a child, while Sherlock watched a certain Christmas film about a skeleton taking over Christmas. He has since deleted it, mind you ;) **

**Anyhoo, to cap off that really long Author's Note, I'll leave you with the Soundtrack piece for this chapter: Dust Bowl Dance by Mumford & Sons. **

**Whether your views on this story are good or bad, I'd kill for a review…pretty please?**


	11. Dreadnought Down

**Chapter 11: Dreadnought Down**

As far as Oliver was concerned, it had been a long morning. He'd had to bundle his cantankerous houseguest into his car at six o'clock in the morning to get him into London for twelve, then had to make contact with a friend and fellow Dreadnought, who was meet them in Trafalgar Square with 'Serenity269's computer, and then had to sling his things into a suitcase that Violet was sharing and taking down to London on the train. Yes. It had definitely been a long morning.

But it had all been worth it to take his shiny, black Hayabusa down the M1. Christ! He loved the feeling of speeding down the longest motorway in Britain; he almost wished that he could have gone without the helmet, just to feel the wind screaming in his ears.

It was just a shame that this was business rather than pleasure.

Surprisingly, it took him less than an hour to get into the city centre after battling his way through the M25, but that didn't make the unease he felt at the sight of the looming Metropolis dissipate. If anything, it increased – grew stronger. If he could get into London so quickly, then what prevented the Secret Service and so on from tracing him up to Manchester?

Shoving that thought as far out of his mind as he could, he proceeded to 221b Baker Street, where Violet was already waiting with their things, her features carefully emotionless. Oh no – something had gone wrong – they couldn't afford for anything to go wrong.

He pulled up on the curb and pulled his helmet off. "What's wrong?" he asked, dispensing with all preliminaries. Violet's lips pursed almost imperceptibly before she said: "I got another 505 on the train."

"Who?" he asked, feeling a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. _Please don't be Bob…_

"'Dumbledore' – Bob Downey…I got his 505 about an hour and a half ago. I'm so sorry. I know he was your friend." She murmured, not looking him in the eye, as if this was _her _fault.

"Shit." He breathed, his chest tightening against the loss and the fear that had just swamped him. He'd thought that bringing Sherlock Holmes back to life would be fun, challenging, but _fun_. How wrong he'd been… He inhaled deeply, and looked at Violet, trying to figure out whether or not he blamed her – whether he _could _blame her. If she hadn't come to him with this 'project', he wouldn't have put in all his resources, like the lovestruck fool he was, he wouldn't have asked Bob for this favour - and Bob wouldn't be dead...

"Well. He knew the risks. We muck around in dealings like this all the time; there's always a chance that we'll get killed for it. This time's no different, so can we stop moping, get inside and get the bastard who did this, hmm?" He snapped. Leaping up the steps and knocking on the black door.

"Just a minute!" a lady cooed from inside, just before she opened the door. Her eyes widened and she fluttered ever-so slightly.

"Mrs Hudson." Oliver said grimly, "may we come in."

"Oh. I wasn't expecting anybody at the moment-"

"We're here to see Mr Holmes." Violet interjected with a charming smile, figuring that seeing unexpected, leather-clad visitors (she _was_ wearing her hooded trenchcoat) on your doorstep could be a bit intimidating – at least if you weren't used to it.

Oliver pulled out his phone and began typing.

"Well, I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. Mr Holmes has been dead for two years-"

Just then a phone inside rang, and Mrs Hudson slammed the door to go and answer it, leaving Violet and Oliver twiddling their thumbs on the doorstep, until she yanked the door back open and then said brightly "Come in – come in. I'm sorry about that, I was told you'd be here at about five, you see, and, well…you're early." She ushered them inside and up the stairs to what was presumably Sherlock's old flat. "That's absolutely fine, Mrs Hudson." Violet beamed in that self-assured way that always seemed to calm down fussy old ladies, and for some reason always resulted in being offered a cup of tea. This time was no different. "Yes, that'd be lovely, thank you," she replied, "would you like one, Oliver?"

"Could I have a cup of coffee, please? Black, two sugars." He murmured absently, unzipping the suitcase to grab out their laptops, external hard-drives and various other bits of equipment.

"Yes, dear." Mrs Hudson smiled before leaving the flat.

"Are we setting up in the kitchen?" Violet enquired.

"I suppose." Oliver answered shortly, taking the computer equipment into the kitchen and plugging everything in.

"Look, I _am_ sorry-"

"No." he sighed, "Don't apologise. It's not your fault; _you _didn't kill him. _You didn't_. Ok? I just…I just need to get to work. So…"

"Right." Violet nodded, shrugging off her long coat and making her way into the kitchen, where they switched the laptops on and donned headsets, ready to examine Bob Downey's 505 and work out where his body – and the laptop was.

…

It was another hour before Sherlock came back to the flat, John following not far behind, just like old times, and in that time, the police had discovered the body of "Robert Downey, aged 39" twenty feet into the Northbound tunnel of Euston Underground.

"What I would give to be at that crime scene, now." Sherlock growled, stalking into the flat, shrugging out of his coat and scarf. "You and me both." Oliver agreed bitterly from his position at the kitchen counter.

Sherlock whirled around, his eyes wide with outrage at the sight of the two Hackers all set up on _his_ kitchen counter. "What! – no – you can't sit there; that's where I do all of my experiments – I'll need to do experiments, so you can't go there."

"Well, where do you expect us to be?" Violet demanded, to which Sherlock danced on his heel whilst the bejumpered John Watson looked on with no surprise whatsoever showing on his lined face. Honestly, if Sherlock ever behaved in any other way, he fully expected to see pigs flying past the window, wearing spandex and glitzy platform heels.

"_There_. You can go there." Sherlock gestured absently to the dusty bombsite that was the sitting room.

"How about 'no'." Violet murmured dismissively.

"Is no one going to introduce me?" John asked mildly, flexing his fingers. He remembered his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, who had, with his peculiar brand of polite obnoxiousness, informed him that the fact that his hand shook was not a sign that he was haunted by the battle that he had left in Afghanistan, but that he missed it. Right now, he was gladder than he could say that his hand was not shaking _at all_. In fact, watching Sherlock throwing a strop at two unknown figures in the kitchen was pretty much making his year.

"Ugh, yes, of course, John." Sherlock muttered with a scowl, "The one with the long hair and the obvious lack of maturity is Count Frederick Oliver Pearce, Earl of Stockport – otherwise known as: 'Dracula', 'Oliver', 'Gaoler'…I can think of a few other names for him-"

"Mind your mouth, Sherlock." Violet said, not looking up from her screen, her tone that of pleasant warning.

"And the one with the purple hair and the dress sense that will hopefully make my brother cry is Violet-"

John's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the girl whom Sherlock professed to be Mycroft's dau- no, it couldn't be right, surely? Every part of her seemed to be the perfect antithesis of Mycroft's debonair, unhurried, elegantly groomed aspect: from the shabbily styled purple hair; to the odd earrings and array of necklaces; to the gothic cut of her wine-red shirt and black leather waistcoat; to the leggings, black denim shorts and scuffed ankle boots. Not forgetting the glasses and the conspicuous lack of umbrella.

Strangely enough, though, there was some resemblance. It was in the way she held herself, like someone with a hell of a lot of power, who knew precisely what they were doing. It was in her voice; the soft, cynical mockery and the neatly clipped consonants.

"We've spoken." She smiled warmly at John, whose brows rose slightly.

"I'm not sure that taking possession of my computer in order to type up a vague message really counts as 'speaking'. At least not in my experience." He muttered acerbically, eyeing the pair at the kitchen counter with their headphones and wires and laptops and such whilst Sherlock leapt like a hyperactive jungle cat into his chair. The one whom Sherlock had identified as 'Dracula'…or 'Oliver' – that sounded more normal – smirked. "It's her trademark." He murmured before admonishing her: "you know, you really should stop doing that: at some point, someone is going to work out how you're doing it – "

"And when that day comes, I'll stop doing it." The girl teased.

Ok, John decided that he wasn't even going to touch that. Damn, Mycroft was in for a shock.

Just then, Sherlock's baritone jerked them all out their reveries: "I'm going out-"

"No." Violet said firmly, the teasing note in her voice gone. She stared at Sherlock in a way that was creepily familiar and would undoubtedly have had many quaking in their shoes. Not Sherlock though.

"I can't just sit here and do _nothing_. Not when there's this _case_! You want it solved – you want the murderer – so let me go and get him-"

"Do you honestly think that you'll get anywhere near the crime scene? The Filth are _all_ over that tunnel – and they all think you're dead. Very likely most of them think of you as the fake genius who committed suicide-"

"Oh come on, you've been working on that for over eighteen months!"

"The process is not _complete_! That was the point to Emily Strange's article – _that _was going to be the clincher, and even _then_ we were going to have to wait awhile for the effects to take root-"

"Well we haven't got time for that-" Sherlock shouted, his face a mask of anguished frenzy.

"I know!" Violet roared, making everyone in the room stop.

When she next spoke, her voice was cool, though her cheeks were flushed with stress.

"Look. I know that the last two years have been hell for you. I know that you're bored and frustrated – I can empathise with that. But marching down there, collar up and coat swishing, is going to do nothing but undo _everything_ that I've built over the last two years. All of our work will be wasted because you like to show off.

"I would just like to point out that, right now, this is no longer about _you. _I'm sorry if you can't handle that fact because you're a _child_; that'll mean that the lot of us are screwed. We're going to be picked off, one by one, for supporting you, when you can't be bothered to stick to the plan we've laid out."

At this, Sherlock looked, uncharacteristically, down at his feet, duly chastened. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"'s fine." She muttered, turning back to her computer screen. John looked at Sherlock, brow furrowed; the number of times someone had given him such a lecture, and it had been water off a duck's back…what exactly was going on, here? How big, really, was this case?

"What d'you think?" the long haired man asked the girl on a whisper.

"It sounds like a good idea. He's the one most likely to listen, from what I've found-"

"It will speed things up, just that little bit-"

"Let's do it, then."

"Do what?" John enquired, bemused for the third time in the last five minutes.

"They're going to track down Lestrade and arrange a meeting." There was a subtle smile in Sherlock's voice as he said this, as if he approved of the plan. John rolled his eyes; there was one glaring flaw with this plan: "Lestrade thinks you're dead. If he sees you, God knows what'll happen – he'll probably arrest you for all you know-"

"Yes, that's more than likely. Which is why I'm not the one who's meeting him."

"Well, who is?"

"I am." Violet smiled in a way that chilled John, just a little bit. It was a slight smile; polite, friendly, sweet even. But there was a funny sort of gleam in her eye.

"Have you sent the text?" Sherlock asked of Oliver. The other man nodded and said:

"I've told him that we have some information that he may find of value. He is to go to London Victoria Station and he is to wait there. _Alone._"

John blinked: "You know he won't agree to that – he can't. He'll be bugged with all sorts."

"We know. That won't be a problem." Oliver chuckled mirthlessly.

**Author's Note: I am so sorry that it's taken this long to write. And I'm sort of anxious about it, because it does seem to be clogged up mainly with dialogue. I hope this chapter doesn't suffer for it, though. It was mostly an expositional chapter.**

**Ok, just for any non-British readers: 'The Filth' is one of our names for the police…I love how much that says about us as a nation-lol. **

**Soundtrack, if anyone cares, is: Narcissistic Cannibal by Korn.**

**As a relatively pointless incentive to shamelessly ply you lovely readers for reviews, I'll dedicate the next chapter to the first person who does. Fair? No? Ah, well }-) **


	12. Of Hackers and Policemen: Part 1

**Chapter 12: Of Hackers and Policemen: Part 1.**

_**Dedicated to CheyanneChika**_**.**

John was out getting milk and Moira had already left 221b Baker Street – was already halfway to Victoria Station, in fact – when a black car with tinted windows glided up the road and pulled to a stop. It was an unmarked – rather nondescript car, but if it were any other car, a traffic warden would have come by and landed the owner of the vehicle with a ticket. As it was, the last time anyone checked, traffic wardens didn't tend to ticket the British Government. Singular, not plural.

The driver got out and pulled open the back passenger door, allowing a certain 'minor' government official to get out and make his way up to the front door of his brother's flat, umbrella in hand.

He pressed the doorbell and waited for Mrs Hudson to bustle to answer.

He wasn't surprised to find that, when she did, he was awarded a chilly reception. He was used to it, though he never did quite understand why that tended to be the response he engendered in people who weren't very much afraid of him. Though, perhaps considering his part in the debacle with Sherlock and Moriarty – and that he had once told Mrs Hudson to shut up…well, he wasn't entirely surprised by her reaction.

However, she was kind enough to lead him up the stairs to Sherlock's flat and offer him a cup of tea.

"What are _you _doing here?" Sherlock demanded furiously, violin poised threateningly in his hands. The question brought Mycroft to a stop. Just a small one, one which no one noticed, but a stop nonetheless. "My dead brother turns up alive and you expect me not to be curious?"

"No thanks to you." A voice that wasn't Sherlock's muttered from the kitchen, to which Mycroft turned and fixed the man at the kitchen counter with a look that stopped short of being an outright _glare_. "Frederick." He greeted the long-haired man coolly, "though I hear you prefer to go by the name 'Dracula' now. You always _were _prone to unoriginal theatrics."

"And _you _were always prone to being a nosey, autocratic bastard."

Before Mycroft could arch his brow in disdain, Sherlock poked him with his bow and demanded again to know what Mycroft was doing there.

The elder Holmes pretended to consider the question for a moment, raking his eyes over his younger brother's lanky frame and his pale features. He didn't seem to have changed at all in the last two years – no, that wasn't quite true: there were creases at his eyes that hadn't been there before, along with an almost indiscernible grey hair or two amongst Sherlock's riotous curls, no doubt caused by the stress of running around the globe, hunting down the lesser spiders in Moriarty's web.

"I made a poor choice. And I chose poorly." He said simply, unwilling to say more on the subject with the Hacker in the room. Though he had never shown himself to be anything more than a minor nuisance, the Count had always been the only member of the House of Lords to be seemingly immune to Mycroft's manipulation, thus the 'minor government official' knew that he'd be a fool to trust him.

"You don't have to be so oblique; I know all about how you threw your brother to the wolves." the Earl smirked, his eyes devoid of any real mirth: so the death of Robert 'Dumbledore' Downey was definitely related to this case, then? Interesting…

"And I know all about your illegal antics," Mycroft said, his tone just congenial enough to be icy, "So, I'd very much appreciate your silence."

"Oh, _please_. I have enough on you to have you shot-"

"Oh?" Only one person aside from Sherlock had ever hacked into anything related to the elder Holmes' activities, and that person was most certainly not the man sat at the kitchen counter, laptop open.

"And where is 'Medusa' now?" he asked softly, dangerously.

"Isn't it time for your weightwatcher's meeting?" Sherlock snapped belligerently, abruptly taking up his Stradivarius, no doubt with the intent of assaulting the poor strings to torture his brother's unwelcome ears.

Fortunately for Mycroft, he knew when to quit. But he'd be back, certainly, and in the meantime, he'd find out _exactly _what the peer had been doing and with whom…

…

"It's a good thing he didn't turn up while Violet was here, you know." Oliver murmured absently to Sherlock, who slumped into his chair and began to play something of Corelli's. He didn't answer.

"I'm in. And she's there. Do you not want to see?" the Hacker enquired with an arched brow.

Again Sherlock didn't answer. "Suit yourself." Oliver shrugged, turning back to his computer screen which was currently logged into the CCTV at London Victoria station and monitoring the cameras and bugs that Scotland Yard's finest had set up. Contact was imminent…

**Author's Note: Ok, so I meant for this chapter to go onto Moira talking to Lestrade, but then I realised that that would take me longer than I wanted it to.**

**Thus, here is a minor cliffhanger to keep you going until the weekend – when I absolutely will update. **

**I hope you're all enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it – well, otherwise there's not a great deal of point. *hint hint***

**Soundtrack: Red Eyes and Tears by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club**

**Thoughts and Feelings welcomed and encouraged!**


	13. Of Hackers and Policemen: Part 2

**Chapter 13: Of Hackers and Policemen: Part 2.**

As always, London Victoria train station was bustling with tourists, visitors and commuters. The thrumming of life, like the heartbeats of a thousand humming birds, along with the scent of Burger King, piss and sweat assaulted Greg Lestrade's senses. The 'London Underground' song seemed highly appropriate.

When he'd gotten the text demanding that he meet 'insert name here' at London Victoria, his first incredulous thought was: _How the bloody hell is this pillock gonna find me, then? _

His second incredulous thought was: _Am I seriously going to go along with this? I must be mad…_

But he wasn't mad. Just desperate, tired and disappointed. He had been since the night his boss sent him off to haul Sherlock into Scotland Yard. He'd gotten a right rollicking over that debacle, despite the fact that Sherlock – the _late_ Sherlock Holmes – had been acquitted.

"Coffee, Detective Inspector?" A voice archly enquired. He whirled around to see a girl with dark purple hair in a long, leather coat, holding out a large cup of coffee, another clutched closely to her. "Black, no sugar." She clarified with a vaguely amused quirk of her lips.

Should he take the proffered coffee? Was it drugged? _Sod it! I need the caffeine_, he thought savagely, taking the cup with a suspicious word of thanks.

"How do you know that's how I take my coffee?" he asked with a scowl.

"A friend told me." She answered simply.

"A friend?"

"Yes."

…

Meanwhile, inside the surveillance van parked around the corner, tech experts and policemen were tearing their hair out in clumps at the image on their computer screens:

A cartoon image of Count Dracula – cape, fangs and widow's peak included was flicking Vs at them to the sound of the stereotypical 'mwahahaha!' evil laugh.

And that was forgetting that the bugs that were wired around DI Lestrade were picking up nothing but white noise.

Sergeant Sally Donovan, brought out of suspension, was demanding that the techs 'fix it' whilst said techs blinked and drew straws as to who should tell her that they were '_way _out of their depth'. Eventually, a bespectacled Welshman with a stutter and a comb-over weakly said: "Short of calling off the operation, I don't think there's anything that you can do. This is the work of professionals, sergeant, proper _professionals_ who know what they're doing: we're looking at world-class Hacker's – my guess is that this" he pointed to the maniacal Dracula cartoon on the screen, "is the work of a certain Dreadnaught-"

"What's a Dreadnaught?"

"The highest you can get in the Hacking hierarchy. There's only about fifteen of them in the world – three in Britain. I reckon we've just encountered 'Dracula'. He's supposed to be the best in the world – I always dreamed of meeting him one day!" he gushed, adding, at Donovan's threatening scowl, "But if he's involved in this, then that means that 'Medusa' is likely hip-deep in this, as well."

"What do you mean? Who's 'Medusa'?"

"Not too sure: she only appeared on the scene a few years ago, but she's made quite a name for herself in certain circles, since then. They reckon she's already Dreadnaught level. Either way, you rarely find one without the other. The good thing is, though, that if they're involved, Detective Inspector Lestrade is _completely_ safe; they have a pretty strong moral streak, see."

…

"Your text said that you had information about Emily Strange and Robert Downey's murders." Lestrade said gruffly.

"I don't think we were _quite _that specific, but never mind. You're looking for a professional hitman, Detective Inspector, and frankly, I don't think you'll be able to catch him on your own."

"So, what are you? MI5? MI6?"

"Christ no!" the girl snickered, "Our mutual friend would keel over if the secret service got their grubby little mitts on this."

"Alright, _look_. I dunno what you think you're playin' at, but Sherlock Holmes is _dead_. Alright? He threw himself off Bart's roof." He snapped.

"Did he really?"

"Yes!"

At this, Violet's brows rose briefly. "Bit obvious, wouldn't you say?"

"You're saying he's not?" Lestrade croaked curiously, scared to hope that what this mad girl was saying was true. "I'm not saying anything other than that we have a mutual friend who's gagging to get on this case. That's if you don't think that he's behind all of this." Her brown eyes turned icy, then.

"I never believed any of that. I was doing my job-"

"And a fine job you did, too. Look, I don't care: your hands were tied with beaurocratic red tape; administration is bullshit nonsense and the government is a bitch, I know." She smiled reassuringly.

"Well, it's not like he did himself any favours, getting everybody's back up, calling them idiots ever five seconds and showing off all the time with no respect for-"

"Believe me, I know how true that is." She muttered with an exasperated chuckle.

"But I'm not going to say that we don't need that sort of help, right now, 'cause we do." He saluted with his coffee, "Thanks for the coffee, by the way. Really needed that."

"You're very welcome." She grinned, "Just a word of advice, though: if you're going to get yourself bugged, you should really use a Dictaphone, or something. We blocked the signal to your team. Sorry."

"'S just as well, given the subject of conversation, eh?"

Violet nodded, seeing precisely why Sherlock put up with the supposed 'idiot', and stalked toward the exit, leather trenchcoat flowing dramatically behind her.

"Wait, hold on! Where am I s'posed to find him?" Lestrade demanded on a shout.

"I'm sure you can work that one out on your own," she called, not turning around, "It was very lovely to meet you, Detective Inspector!"

…

Donovan caught him, just as he was getting in the car back to Scotland Yard. "Sir? Who was it? What did they want?"

"I dunno. Just a concerned citizen, I s'pose."

"Who got your phone number and sent you a funny text?"

Lestrade answered with a mere shrug that fooled nobody.

"As long as you know what you're doing, Sir."

"Oh, so you're trusting me, now?"

"I made that mistake before; I don't plan on making it a second time."

"Ok then…"

**Author's Note: I'm not too sure about whether or not I'm happy with how this one turned out, so I'd really like your opinions on it.**

**Soundtrack: Remain Nameless by Florence + the Machine.**


	14. Message in a Bottle

**Chapter 14: Message in a Bottle**

Twitter message: Starbucklvr: (at)VSherringford93 I found the Doctor's treasure map do you want me to message you, or do you want it posted to Draccy? xx

Twitter message: VSherringford93: (at)Starbucklvr post it to Draccy, please. Thanks :) . xx


	15. Back in Print

**Chapter 15: Back in Print**

The next day saw 'SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE NOT SO FAKE' splattered across the tabloid headlines as John could attest, reading one of a stack of papers he'd bought from the corner shop that morning. He had to admit that the Hackers – both asleep amid cans of energy drinks, cups of cold tea and coffee and endless wires – were worth several hundred times their weights in gold.

This elegantly, professionally and most importantly, truthfully written article had been printed in every paper whose editors owed Violet and/or Oliver a favour, or simply had a dark secret that the twosome had effortlessly dug up for blackmail purposes.

"'_Blackmail' may be an ugly word," Violet murmured to her comrade sleepily, "but it's so satisfying, isn't it?" She received no answer; Oliver had already dropped off to sleep, not that Violet minded in the least, given that she herself had started softly snoring. _

Either way, the article had been found by one of Violet's _online associates_ at about 8 o'clock the previous evening and was now in all of this morning's papers. John was feeling slightly more optimistic about Sherlock's rehabilitation.

"Oh, John, how many of these bloody newspapers have you gone and bought? They all say the same thing, you know – it's all the same article." Mrs Hudson bustled around the flat, picking up stray newspapers that had fallen from John's stack, "God bless the young lady who wrote it, though; it's very nice and very well written."

"It's a bit late for that, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock muttered, his eyes closed, his fingers steepled against his lips.

"Yes," She frowned, "it's such a shame." She turned to the kitchen where the Hackers were asleep amongst cold cups of tea and coffee (on Oliver's side) and empty cans of energy drink (on Violet's) and sighed, "You boys should be _ashamed _of yourselves, letting those two sleep there, like that. You could have sorted out the beds for them –"

"I need them to wake up now, anyway." Sherlock said carelessly, taking up his precious violin and bow. He then proceeded to produce the most ear-splitting sound that could be made by a violin (he'd conducted an experiment several years ago – John hadn't been happy at four-thirty-three in the morning).

Both Oliver and Violet jerked awake at the horrendous sound, holding their ears and moaning blearily for him to cease and desist until Mrs Hudson shrieked at him to stop. John snatched the offending instrument from the Consulting Detective's grip and held it just out of his reach.

"What d'you want?" Oliver whined, his head on the table in front of him.

"When can I start doing my job?" Sherlock demanded acidly.

"When we get around to blackmailing all of the Television Executives – BBC, ITV, Sky – into publicly apologising for defaming you on the news. We'll do that at about…um…in an hour…so that it'll be on the evening news."

"The evening news! Why not now?"

"Because by this evening, people are more likely to have seen the newspapers and will have time to watch the news with their families. More people see the news. More people know that you weren't a fake. Everybody's happy. Except me. And Violet. Because we've been up for three sodding days straight. And you're a selfish bastard who needs to piss off and let the rest of us have some _sleep_!" Oliver hissed, glaring daggers at the offending man before dozing back off to sleep for another three quarters of an hour.

Mrs Hudson turned to Sherlock, clucked, and said: "It's a wonder you have so many friends, Sherlock Holmes."

"He's only doing it to impress Violet." Sherlock retorted, earning himself a dirty sock being flung at him from the direction of the kitchen.

"Stop being a twat, Sherlock." Violet mumbled sleepily.

**Author's Note: I fear I must apologise for several different reasons:**

**I haven't updated in so long it's surely criminal. And if it isn't, well…I'm still sorry. Coursework is a cow. **

**I've changed the name of one of my major characters. Moira White is now Violet Sherringford. I did a bit of research and the latter name just seems better, now. So, apologies for any confusion.**

**I'm going to apologise for both of the above – oh, and because I'm about to shamelessly beg you beautiful readers for reviews. Again.**

**I do hope that you enjoyed this one. Nothing really happens, but I suppose it explains the somewhat oblique previous chapter.**

**Ah well, either way: Soundtrack: Qué Sera Sera by Pink Martini**


	16. Jaegerbomb

**Chapter 16: Jaegerbomb.**

Charlie Milverton – alias 'Quark' – was a lowly barman who'd never done a dishonest thing in his life … well, there was that one time when he'd helped himself to a hefty sum from the Bank of Scotland's vaults. But the police couldn't prove a thing given that he'd never set foot in the place and his finances were squeaky-clean. 'Quark' was a pro.

But it didn't matter how squeaky-clean and lowly and honest 'Quark' was, he and thirty-three of his customers still 'went with a bang' at 11:34 pm on the night that every news programme in the country, along with a few overseas, apologised for defaming the late consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

At 11:40 pm, John's phone vibrated in the pocket of his combats as he put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

'Is Sherlock with you? GL' it read.

'Yes' he replied.

'Get him to Bart's. Now. GL'

"Sherlock." John called through the flat, ignoring Violet's growing frown as Oliver muttered something about 'Quark' and '505', "You're on."

"_Finally!_" Sherlock whooped with glee, ramming on his coat, gloves and scarf and hurtling out of the door and down the stairs.

"Sherlock," John sighed with a small smile, "aren't you forgetting something?"

"What am I forgetting, John, hmm?" the tall, vibrant man demanded impatiently. John pushed past him into the sitting room and picked up a pair of black loafers that had been flung at the wall in frustration. "Shoes?"

"Ugh – shoes! – Shoes are –"

"Boring. Yes, they are. Put the bloody things on –"

And with that, the pair of them were out of the door and hailing a cab, just like old times.

Lestrade, meanwhile, had been in the unenviable position of looking forward to seeing Sherlock again whilst dreading what the mad bastard had to say for himself and everyone else in the room (along with anyone they'd ever met). When the black cab drew up to the old white building, the DI stiffened and took his hands out of his pockets, concentrating on how his breath misted in the cold night air.

He watched the silhouettes inside the cab gather themselves together and pay their fare. The door opened and Lestrade's throat clogged with anger and guilt and joy. It couldn't be healthy to be feeling this many emotions at the same time.

"Lestrade." The word was uttered by a cool voice that he hadn't heard in far too long.

"Sherlock." He replied, extending his hand. Hell, even if Sherlock didn't take it, he owed it to him: a respectful apology. Luckily, he did, though John maintained a cool distance.

"You were always a great man. I never doubted that. And now I know you're a good man too."

"Yes –" Sherlock began dismissively,

"No – I'm glad you're not dead. But you're still a pain in the arse, Sherlock Holmes." Couldn't be too sentimental with the man, after all.

"Who is it?"

"His name's Charlie Milverton. Officially, he was a barman – what he actually was, was a world class fraudster –"

"Hardly. But he was reasonably adept at siphoning other people's money into other people's bank accounts and tapping into those sources whenever the fancy took him."

"Yeah, well, he was a suspect in a case involving the Bank of Scotland, but we had nothing on him so we couldn't touch him."

"And now he turns up dead. Well, bankers can sleep safely in their beds tonight, can't they Lestrade?"

"Sherlock –" John warned.

"Not when thirty-three innocent people get blown up with him." Lestrade growled, suddenly remembering why he hated dealing with this man.

"Nobody's innocent, Detective Inspector." Sherlock murmured, his flinty eyes scanning the file that he was suddenly being handed. Ugh, _boring_.

…

Down in the morgue, Molly was busying herself with one of the more interesting specimens that she'd ever seen on her slab. John and Lestrade were having a hard time trying not to be sick to their stomachs while Sherlock happily sniffed, prodded, pinched and scraped at the blackened corpse that was melted to a chair.

"You know what it reminds me of?" Molly asked the room at large, not really expecting an answer, "it reminds me of an episode of this programme about a forensic anthropologist and an FBI agent. This woman with a politically dubious past had been blown up and her remains were melted to the inside of her car. Her husband had wired the bomb into a watch because he thought that she was cheating on him."

"Be quiet, please Molly." Sherlock muttered before licking the blackened end of the spatula that he'd been scraping across the victim's wrists.

"Oi, is that necessary?" Lestrade demanded, scandalised.

"Yes, actually. Gaffer tape."

"Gaffer tape?" John asked, "you're saying that he was gaffer-taped to a chair and then blown up?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"But why?" asked Lestrade.

"It's a message. It's no coincidence that Charlie Milverton – or 'Quark' as he is less commonly known – is the victim. He was a Hacker. That has significance. And so does the tape across his mouth – scalpel, please, Molly." He held his hand out expectantly and received the implement within seconds.

"There you go."

"Thank you." He sliced across the mouth of the charred corpse and pried open the jaws a few millimetres. Fishing a pair of tweezers out of his trouser pocket, he slipped them past Milverton's lips and caught at a foreign object lodged in his throat.

"Molly, get me a Petri dish." He carefully unfurled the piece of paper and read the message. His lips tightened and he blinked.

"What does it say?" John asked, edging closer to see.

"It says: 'Did you like my little Jaegerbomb?' and it has some sort of emoticon – a smiley face with the tongue sticking out."

"Christ." Lestrade hissed, dragging out his phone and stalking outside to make a call to his superiors.

"No." John whitened, "it's not. It can't be him."

"It's not." Sherlock said shortly, slamming the tweezers onto the counter and ripping off his latex gloves – the sound of rubber against flesh stark against the usual silence of Molly's domain. He pulled out his phone and sent two texts:

One to Oliver: 'Keep VS close. Do not let her out of the flat. – SH'

And another to Mycroft: '221b. Now. – SH'

**Author's Note: Apologies, this is a long one.**

**Soundtrack: 'Breath of Life' by Florence + the Machine. **

**I am so sorry that I haven't updated in so long – I hope you lovely readers will find it in your hearts to forgive me. On another note, thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, alerted this etc. I bet this was bloody difficult to find, just scrolling down the list, so I am insanely happy. **

**To Omega, I am deliriously happy that you think that I've presented the whole hacking thing well. If what you imply is true, I can only say…WOW – I am genuinely honoured. I couldn't have given away any secrets if I'd tried, to be honest, but thank you; this was actually inspired by the work of hacking organisations like Anonymous, and their protests against ACTA and SOPA etc (didn't they hack into the FBI or something?) and I thought that they'd be a force for Mycroft to reckon with. Thank you so much for reading this. **

**I would also like to thank all of the people who've put this on Story Alert: **

**Dragon's Ghost, ****minimumstitch, Pilikia18, DarqueQueen7, CheyanneChika, ForeverDancer, hpgryffy, Magesa, I am Theta Sigma, Kazziiex, moonlightshade, vedi, IzzyDelta, Sessysbaby666, Lady Okori, alexandra101 and ****ThatOnePersonWithEars.**

**I would also like to thank everyone who's favourited:**

**Smally, Kazziiex, I am Theta Sigma, Alaris24, DarqueQueen7, CheyanneChika, Not Defined By Boundries, Stella Sebarron and ****IzzyDelta**

**In short, just thank you so much for sticking with me. X**


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